


You’re the Balm for What Ails Me

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing, Carriage travel, Christmas fic, Cuddling, Freebird - Freeform, Knight in Shining Armor Trope, Mild Eventual Smut, Multi, Nursing a Houseguest Back to Health, Samsteve - Freeform, Shameless Opportunities for Cuddling, This isn't quite Barbershop Quartet, Tumblr otpprompt, Wealthy Bachelor Sam, even though it is a little after Christmas, homeless steve, it's DEFINITELY SamSteve, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9117574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Upon inheriting his parents’ estate, Samuel Wilson is one of the city’s most eligible bachelors; yet, he is also its loneliest. On one blistering cold night, he meets an angel dressed in rags, Steven Rogers, and Sam is instantlysmitten.One should meet the one who sets their heart aflame in a ballroom, Sam thinks. Or a drawing room. At Sunday missal. Or perhaps at a garden luncheon while eating finger sandwiches and playing croquet.One simply doesn’t run over them with their bloodycarriage.





	1. Lovestruck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rc1788](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rc1788/gifts).



> Victorian AU, taken from a Tumblr prompt. Person A is wealthy but has no family and is usually lonely during Christmas time.  On the way home one evening, their carriage slips over the icy streets and hits Person B, who is homeless and freezing.  Person A feels horrible about hitting them so they take them home and fix them up as well as insist that they at least stay until after Christmas.  Person A dresses Person B and feeds them and treats them with kindness and they slowly fall in love as Person B heals, but then Person B overhears the maids and butler speaking about how Person B is taking advantage of Person A, so Person B leaves.  Person A is heartbroken and desperate to find Person B and eventually does find them on Christmas eve and brings them home right away, but Person B is terribly sick from living out on the streets in the snow and the doctor says they may not make it.  Person A stays with Person B through the whole night of Christmas eve and softly sings Christmas carols to them until morning.  Christmas morning comes and Person B’s health starts to recover and they both celebrate the Christmas miracle.

“I’ve uncovered the last of ‘em, sir,” Kate informed Sam from where she hovered on the doorway, waiting for further instruction. “And Rahne and I have polished them, too. They gleam, now.” Her voice was proud, and Sam gave her a wan smile.

“So bright that I expect to be blinded the next time I check one to fix my cravat. It’s late, Mrs. Barton. I can have Billy take you home in the carriage?”

“Oh, no, sir. My Clinton is already on his way.” Kate nodded to the ormolu clock above the mantle. The big hand told them it was five minutes until four, and the sun was nearly gone. “Rahne washed the drapes and hung them out to dry. They will be ready to press and put away when we return in the morning, Mr. Wilson.” She indicated the window, and Sam rose from his desk, stretching and giving his back a little crack. He went to the window and saw the neat clothesline laden with the black draping cloths that had covered all of the mirrors in his home. 

His mourning period was finally over. Sam didn’t feel much satisfaction in it; the iron band constricting his heart had barely loosened. He still wore his black garments while he was out and about, particularly his father’s worsted wool coat; it helped him feel closer to Paul in the wake of his passing, feeling his father’s warmth, wit and kindness somehow woven in its threads, tucked tightly into every pleat. Despite their somber color, Sam’s clothing was well-cut and of impeccable quality.

“Tell Miss Sinclair that I’m well settled for the evening, and that she should make her way home before it gets too late. I won’t keep her from her own supper, or be found guilty of overworking my maids.”

“It won’t hurt Samuel to be kept waiting a while longer,” Kate teased, a smirk curling her lips. “It’s a lady’s prerogative to keep a gentleman waiting.”

Sam lowered his eyes to the floor, remembering his father telling him the same whenever Darlene dawdled in her own preparations, before descending the stairs to Paul’s lavish compliments. Darlene Wilson knew how to make an entrance, still a striking woman in her middle years. She had Paul wrapped around her little finger. Darlene’s no-nonsense approach to running her household balanced her husband’s gregarious nature. They were a suitable match from the very beginning.

Sam remembered what he’d meant to tell Kate just as she turned to leave. “A moment, Mrs. Barton.” He reached into the escritoire’s drawer and pulled out a small wooden box. Sam unlocked it with a tiny brass key, and Kate looked chuffed. 

“Sir. You needn’t, truly.”

“Truly, I must. You deserve it. Richly, I might add.” Sam smiled and took Kate’s hand, turned it palm-up and tucked in two paper notes. “Thank you for your continued service in my home. And for being so kind, when…” His voice faltered. “You’ve taken good care of me,” he pronounced around a thickness in his throat.

“Mr. Wilson. It’s my pleasure. My extreme pleasure.” She bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Never think you have to reimburse my kindness. It’s my honor to work in your home.” Her hand was soft as she reached for Sam’s just as he withdrew it, and she gave his a squeeze. “Thank you, Mr. Wilson.”

“Barton will want his supper,” Sam told her.

“He’ll be bellowing for it,” she corrected him. “Like an unruly child. It’s part of his charm.”

“Then he’s the most charming fellow I’ve ever met.”

That sent her away chuckling, and Rahne soon made last appearance in his study for the night. Rahne had already removed her cap, and her boyishly short red hair was slightly flattened from it, but it didn’t dim her piquant beauty. Rahne came to Sam from the orphanage when she was little more than a waif, deemed too old to remain within its walls; the proprietor, Father Craig, cast her out without finding her adoptive parents or a household that would take her on as a nanny or scullery girl. Sam found her on the roadside one afternoon, with a basketful of wildflowers. She offered to sell him some. Sam refused them, but handed her a card printed with the address of his shop. Her clothing was shabby and threadbare, the hem torn loose from her dress; her hair had been cut brutally short because the women at the orphanage refused to braid or curl it. Father Craig, himself, deemed redheads to be the kin of the Devil himself.

Sam offered Rahne a cup of tea in the back of his shop and employment in his household. He also sent her off to a ladies’ boarding house, run by Monica, one of his fondest childhood friends. Rahne met Sam Guthrie one afternoon while she was hanging out the laundry; Sam stopped by to deliver a new saddle, leather polished until it gleamed, and when he saw Rahne, he called out to her shyly, removing his worn cap. Sam reached the age where he was released from the orphanage two years before Rahne, and the time that they’d remained separated fell away the moment she laid eyes upon him. Rahne dropped her clothespins from nerveless fingers and just stared. Her mouth worked, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“Rahne?” Sam attempted again. “Is that you?”

Rahne covered her mouth, washload forgotten as she ran to him, skirts billowing, and she hopped up into his arms, bowling him over. Her choked cries mingled with his laughter. 

Sam became a regular visitor to Sam’s home. He brought Rahne flowers every time.

Sam scolded himself that it didn’t become him to feel jealous of his servants. 

The house was large, immaculate, well furnished, and lonely. Darlene and Paul’s portraits over the mantel were no replacement for the pleasure of their company. He missed their bold voices; the smell of Paul’s pipe smoke; Darlene’s soft hand caressing Sam’s cheek; Sunday suppers filled with Darlene’s gossip from town. Sam watched Rahne and Kate depart through the drapes. He chuckled at the animated way that Kate and Clint appeared to be squabbling already; they’d only been married a year, but it might as well have been twenty. Rahne and Sam walked arm in arm, with no thought given to propriety or discretion; they’d waited too long to find each other and wanted to waste no more time on dodging their neighbor’s wagging tongues.

Sam returned his cash box to its drawer and his eyes landed on the small, cream-colored envelope lying atop the desk. It was heavy, expensive paper stock, with his name written on it in copperplate script. Another invitation to a ball. He’d sent back polite regrets on six in just the past month. But he still opened this one, just for posterity, and he sighed at the announcement. Wanda Maximoff. Her father, Erik, was holding his seasonal ball. His son, Pietro, Wanda’s twin,  was already betrothed, but Wanda was in the market for a husband. Sam, unfortunately, wasn’t shopping around for a wife. Not yet.

Not… quite.

But Sam was coming out of mourning. He had to make the expected appearances in ballrooms and drawing rooms and at the opera. He felt the weight of his social obligations weighing him down like a sack of stones. Another ball. More polite chatter and more leading eligible ladies around the floor in graceful reels, scrawling his name on rapidly filling dance cards. 

He absolutely _dreaded it_.

*

Elsewhere, far from Sam’s quiet supper that he served himself from the pot of fragrant soup that Cook left for him, another lonely soul scrabbled for humbler sustenance.

It involved a skirmish with a herd of feral cats. 

“Scat! Scat!” the young man hissed as he rummaged in the alley, just behind the cafe. He found the bins where the refuse was tossed, buckets full of half-eaten scraps and rinds with fruit still clinging to them just beginning to draw ants. His hands were slender, grubby and cold, his fingernails broken and filthy; Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d buffed his nails, or even owned a decent pair of gloves. A large, gray striped tabby with matted fur and missing an eye snarled at Steve when he reached for the remains of a chicken leg from the pail. He smelled it briefly; it wasn’t high, mostly likely from the cafe’s lunch crowd. Steve bit into it, tearing off scant strips of meat. He picked it, even gnawing on the bits of gristle. One couldn’t be picky about supper when you didn’t know where breakfast was going to come from the next day.

Breakfast that morning had been a stale, day-old roll from a tray that the baker’s serving girl was about to throw out. She took pity on him, soft gray eyes flitting over his shabby state and seeing his gaunt frame, and she handed him the bun before the baker himself came out and shooed him away. Steve darted off before she could stuff his pockets with anymore of the bread. 

Times had been harsh since Sarah passed. Sarah made her living as a nurse and midwife, until she came down with consumption. She succumbed to it two days before Steve’s seventeenth birthday. Steve was soon forced to let the bank take Sarah’s modest cottage. He found lodging in a boarding house for a time, and meager employment in the blacksmith’s shop. He was turned off when he showed little talent for the trade or for wielding the heavy tools. Steve wandered about, finding odd jobs, pulling weeds, polishing saddles, harvesting apples in orchards when there was work. But it was winter, harsh and unforgiving. The orchards’ trees were stripped bare. Steve was left to scrounge and scrimp. His pockets were empty, and the worrisome tickle in his throat developed into an even more worrisome cough. Steve couldn’t afford any of the remedies or tonics offered by the local apothecary.

He might have wanted for a handkerchief or a tonic. But at least he wouldn’t want for supper. Steve found the severed top of a carrot and bit into it, wishing he could have tasted the soup containing the rest of it.

Steve vacated the alley, and the cats flicked their tails at him, none of them craving affection from his hands. He wandered the street, dodging the townsfolk who spared him disdaining glances or outright ignored him. Steve made another stop, just outside the small inn at the corner, and he rummaged in that alley, too, until he found a discarded copy of the newspaper. Steve tore out a page, uninterested in the headlines, and he tore it into strips, then crumpled those in turn. He removed his shoe and stuffed wads of the paper inside to block the drafts of cold air that snuck in through the hole in the sole. His shoes had worn through two seasons ago.

Steve gathered up his small pack of belongings, two changes of shabby clothing, a couple of books, his mother’s locket - he would never part with it - and his small sketchbook and a stub of pencil. All of his possessions were wrapped up in a blanket and knotted shut. Steve slept behind the inn occasionally, when the constable wasn’t strolling about, but he often went on the road and sought out farms with barns. The horses and hens usually didn’t mind him, and the hay almost made a decent bed. Steve would rise with the roosters and take his leave at dawn, before he was discovered and driven off. 

Tonight, he walked down the road toward the same farm, roughly two miles beyond the town’s limits, hating the hole in his shoe more than ever; despite his attempt at protecting his sole, he felt every pebble and twig. His stomach complained that he hadn’t fed it very adequately, but it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps he could filch an egg or two, if the barn was empty and the hens had been busy, Steve mused.

It wouldn’t come to pass.

Steve saw that the farmer had visitors, recognizing the constable’s wagon and the farmer’s neighbor from  down the road. He lingered mere meters away, and their voices carried on the wind:

…”there’s been vagrants about. I know someone was out in my barn the other night. Looked like they’d been in my loft.”

“Was anything else missing?”

“I’ve barely anything for anyone to want to take,” the farmer explained. “Just don’t feel secure with people poking around on my property.”

Well.

That rearranged Steve’s plans for the night. He strolled by, making his way into the woods along the road to escape their notice, until he was back within the town limits. With nowhere to lay his head.

“Splendid,” he muttered under his breath.

*

 

Sam contemplated his empty soup bowl, toying with a bit of the good, crusty bread and dragging it through the rest of the broth. He was pleasantly full, but he felt restless. He wasn’t in the mood for a walk, and the weather was cold enough not to recommend it. Sam was glad the ground was thawing slightly from the last snow. Patches of muddy ground showed through the mounds of soiled white, but the temperature was dropping, and Sam pitied anyone caught out on a night like this.

Christmas grew closer, and Sam felt less than festive. His staff earned the bonuses he planned for them, and Kate and Clint invited them to their family supper that they planned to hold on Christmas Eve. It felt so strange not to host one himself, or to light Darlene’s green beeswax tapers, scented with bayberry.

The night was full of stars. They appealed to Sam, more than the shelf of books or the fire roaring in the hearth. 

Sam retrieved his coat, cap and scarf from the peg in his foyer, and he tugged his heavy mittens from the pocket. Once dressed, he went out into his yard, where his coachman, Simon, tended the rig and horses.

“Are we going out, sir?”

“To the cemetery. I’m going to visit Mother and Father.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sam was bundled into the carriage covered with a heavy blanket, and Simon whistled at the horses, steering them into a comfortable lope down the street. Sam hoped the cold air and the stars twinkling overhead would clear his head, and perhaps bring him some peace. The carriage rocked over the gravel and cobbles. Sam’s breath fogged the windows as he stared out into the night. 

*

The next four nights yielded little change. Sam busied himself in his shop during the day, and he made shopping lists for Cook to stock his house with supplies and food. The snow returned, covering the ground with a lush coat of crystalline white and dressing the blackened trees, stretching their branches toward an uncaring sky, beseeching it for relief.

Sam eventually went to the tailor’s, deciding after some soul-searching to accept Erik Lensherr’s invitation. The ball was moved to three days before Christmas, and he needed suitable finery. Simon drove him into town, and Natasha greeted him with a smile, a fashion plate in a green day down with a high, ruffled neckline and snug sleeves. Her hair was pinned up and soft tendrils fell around her face. Sam bent and kissed her hand. “Good afternoon, Miss Romanoff.”

“Mr. Wilson. Always a pleasure to have you in my shop.” Her green eyes held mischief. “How may I dress you today?”

Simon coughed at the less than delicate phrasing. “I will wait outside for you, sir.” He escaped from the front parlor, missing the slow smile from his employer, and the way Natasha reached up to caress Sam’s cheek.

“I prefer undressing you,” Nat mused.

“Tongues will wag,” Sam told her softly. She left her hand drop and sighed.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you, too.”

Their visits used to be furtive but frequent. Natasha took over her husband Alexei’s shop upon his death, having been shot by robbers one night while he was riding home. Natasha, never one for appearances or societal convention, sought Sam out in his opera box once her period of mourning ended, before Darlene and Paul passed, and they began an affair that lasted months, offering them surcease, a reprieve from the loneliness. But Natasha knew Sam’s heart wasn’t truly in it; his parents’ deaths made him reevaluate his life, and his dreams for the future.

He wanted Natasha to have ample opportunity to find a man worthy of her affections who could give her his whole heart. That couldn’t happen while she received visitors late at night through her back gate, no matter how appealing she found Sam’s humor, charming smile and gentle, talented hands. Natasha was childless, rumored to be barren. That wouldn’t have deterred Sam for asking for her hand, if a marriage contract was what she wanted from him. 

He frequented her shop now, instead of her estate. Natasha knew his measurements _perfectly_. Scott swept out from the back of the shop, clad only in a high-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a brown vest and casual trousers and well-worn dark boots. He brought out a waistcoat with tails for Sam to try on. It nearly fit Sam. Natasha promised him that she could have one ready for him by the ball. He went through her selection of vests and found one in a handsome dove gray, selecting a darker gray cravat. Scott rushed back into the bowels of the shop and began rifling through bolts of cloth. 

“So. The Maximoffs’ Christmas ball,” Natasha inquired, once he was out of earshot.

“Will you attend it?”

“I received the invitation. I haven’t thrown it into the fireplace yet.”

“It’s polite to send a refusal. It’s even more polite to accept. I’d hoped to sign your dance card, Miss Romanoff.”

“Your hand will grow cramped from the dozens of cards shoved under your nose,” she accused, waving him off. Sam grinned and wiggled his eyebrows for her benefit, and she snickered.

“I won’t monopolize you if you promise me one reel,” he told her.

“Then my promise won’t prove hollow. You’ll have your reel.” Natasha sighed, and she laid her hand on his forearm. “You’ve lingered in my thoughts, Samuel.”

“The nights are the hardest,” he admitted. 

“Your eyes tell me how true that is.” They had slight bags under them, proof that sleep hadn’t visited him.

“The shrouds have been put away.”

“Yet you still wear black.”

“I’m not… I’m not ready. Not yet. It still hurts so much.”

“It will,” she agreed. “I won’t lie to you that it will hurt less with time. Only that you will grow accustomed to it. Like a bone that still aches after it knits itself back together.” 

Sam smiled, and it lacked brilliance. He raised her hand to his lips, brushing them over her knuckles. “I won’t take anymore liberties with your time, Miss Romanoff.”

“If I give them to you freely, how can you take them?” she challenged. She accepted his casual salutation in lieu of the embrace that she craved, heeding the dictates of etiquette that much, at least. It irked her.

*

Steve hurried out of the alley behind the baker’s, arms laden with stale bread, this time a two-day old loaf studded with raisins, and the serving girl stood out back, holding her ear after her employer had boxed it soundly.

“Come back, thief!” he shouted angrily, brandishing a heavy rolling pin. Steve darted down the length of they as fast as his wasted legs and piercing hunger would allow. He could almost taste the bread. He only needed a place to rest - and hide - to enjoy it.

*

 

Simon steered the carriage, urging the horses into a gallop. The snow flurried down in large flakes, stirred by the strong gusts. Sam huddled beneath the blanket, grateful to be finished with his errands for the evening. He longed for Cook’s stew, rich with beef and new potatoes. Natasha had no room to bring up Sam’s lack of sleep; her own eyes wore faint shadows beneath them, but it didn’t dim their beauty.

The buildings grew further apart as they rode toward the edge of town, back toward Sam’s estate. Passerby hurried down the sidewalks, dodging icy puddles and struggling through snow drifts. They huddled deep down into their coats and scarves, genders almost indiscernible under so many heavy layers. Sam was grateful to be headed home.

Until he felt his carriage lurch to an abrupt, crashing halt, hearing Simon’s curses.

“Blast,” Sam growled. “SIMON!” he called.

“I’m taking care of it, sir! Provided I haven’t killed him!”

“Him?” Sam felt alarm grip his chest. Had Simon honestly hit someone?

Without waiting for Simon to let him out, Sam freed himself from the blanket and jerked open the carriage door, climbing out into the street. “What happened?”

“He just darted out of nowhere, Mr. Wilson, I swear it!” Simon’s face was wreathed in horror, and Sam looked down and shared the sight that greeted him. There was a young man lying in the street, groaning in pain.

“Oh, no,” Sam cried out, rushing over and kneeling by the poor baggage lying on the cobbles, clothing in disarray, his shabby coat gaping open.  When Sam gently turned him over onto his back, he saw an open cut, long and jagged, down his temple. Sam pressed his palm to his narrow chest, shocked at how easily he felt his bones, and he gave him a little shake. “Please tell me you’re still alive, man!”

He opened blue eyes, which looked dazed. Sam gave in to the momentary, foolish thought that his lashes were long and thick, the envy of any woman. 

*

Steve stared up into the handsome face, illuminated by the street lanterns.

_He looks like an angel._

*

 

“What did he drop?” Simon asked as he picked up the object. “Bread,” he pronounced.

“He’s a dirty thief, and a beggar! But mostly, just a thief!” A man in a baker’s apron, not dressed for a night out in the elements, pointed an accusing finger at the young, poor soul. “He’s been loitering in the alleyway behind my shop, snatching up crumbs!”

“He was starving, you have no heart!” cried the waif beside him, also dressed in an apron and hugging herself against the cold winds. She was shivering, and Sam was already taking off his coat to offer it to her, but she shook her head. “Please, sir, I beg you, give it to him, instead. He barely eats. He has no meat on him.”

Sam considered her words, then nodded. “You’re right.”

“He’s still a thief,” the baker insisted.

“You said he took the bread?”

“It’s stale, anyway. A day old,” the girl added in annoyance.

“I can turn you out, too, feeding my bread to the riff-raff without making ‘em pay,” the baker told her. “Going to turn _this_ one in to the constable!”

The blond groaned, scowling up at the sky, and his eyes tracked the movement of passerby who wandered over in concern. Then they landed on Sam.

“Sir…” he began, licking dry lips. “I… beg your pardon.”

“For getting hit by my carriage? You’ll do no such thing,” Sam told him, nonplussed. “Sir,” Sam said, turning to the baker, “there’s no need to rouse the constable. Here.” He reached into his pocket and took out a few coppers. “That’s for the bread. It’s ruined, anyway, now that it’s been on the ground.” Sam nodded to Simon to hand the baker the loaf, too, even though he lacked confidence in the baker’s ethical nature; he had little doubt that the soiled, stale loaf wouldn’t find its way back to his counter for sale the next morning. Sam returned to the young victim’s side, and he found him trying to roll to a sitting position, but he was wincing and smothering low cries of pain, and Sam noticed the odd angle of his leg.

Sam immediately reached for him, shouldering his weight, but when he tried to stand, his new acquaintance faltered, unable to place weight on that leg. “Blast,” he hissed, face wracked with pain. He gave Sam an apologetic look. “Just… help me to somewhere to sit, and I’ll-”

“I have somewhere for you to sit. But you won’t be walking there. Not like this.” With that, Sam scooped him up into his arms, light as a feather.

“This is… unseemly, sir,” he told Sam, and his expression was absolutely _mortified_. Yet he clung to Sam, hand fisted in the lapel of his heavy coat. Sam’s brown eyes were warm and full of concern.

“I’ve done worse things, under more appalling circumstances, I assure you. Inside with you, now.” And he ducked into the carriage, while Simon held open the door. Sam settled him on the leather-upholstered seat and tucked him under the blanket. The young man still looked dazed and incredulous.

“Are you always in the habit of picking up people you don’t know?”

“I’ve swept the occasional _lady_ off of her feet. But not normally after breaking her leg. I am _truly_ sorry. You have no idea how much I regret this.” Sam heard, and saw, the baker wandering off down the road, with the loaf still tucked under his arm. Steve saw him, too, and he looked ashamed, staring down at his hands where they were clenched over the blanket. “You haven’t eaten.” Simon lingered by the door, awaiting instruction.

“Not… not yet. I was going to, but-”

“Simon. Take us home. Then summon Dr. Erskine.”

His guest - Sam hoped he would be his friend, eventually - stared at Sam in shock. Simon climbed back onto his perch and drove them home, with no further incident.

*

“Being carried is… awkward.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to walk up my front steps in your current state. You’re welcome to try.”

“Am I?” Because Sam had been insistent about easing him out of the carriage, never letting Steve out of his arms. Steve felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, but he also felt… safe. Protected, in his benefactor’s strong arms, held against that hard chest. Simon opened the front door and let them inside, but he remained on the front porch.

“I will summon the doctor.”

“I will get him settled. Please tell him to hurry.”

“Shall I stop at the apothecary’s?”

“Yes. Wait. Here.” Sam reached into his pocket and handed him a generous note. Simon tucked it into his pocket, nodded, and left. Sam called into the corridor, “Mrs. Barton! Miss Sinclair!” His housekeepers hurried in, and they greeted the sight of Sam holding the bedraggled stranger with alarm. “Please help me get him settled in the guest room.”

“Upstairs, or downstairs, sir?” Rahne asked.

“Upstairs. The one next to my suite, please.”

They rushed off to gather up linens and towels, and to fill a wash basin. Rahne assembled fine soap and rummaged for a pair of Sam’s socks, worn but with no holes, as well as one of his shirt that she retrieved from her mending basket that had a small hole in the sleeve. It would do. Kate put the kettle on for tea and went to stoke up the fire in the study. She also went to heat up a brick for the bed.

Sam hadn’t put his guest down, yet.

“Surely you don’t plan to carry me around all night, sir?”

“Not without an introduction.” Sam’s lips curled.

“Steven. Steve. Rogers.”

“Samuel. Sam. Wilson.” This time, Sam’s smile brought out his dimples, prying a smile from Steve, too.

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

“You’ll be even more pleased when I feed you some supper.”

*

Sam eventually set him down. (Steve regretted it, having grown accustomed to the scent of his skin and the pomade he used on his hair, and the way it felt in his arms.) He arranged Steve in his study on a chair with nailhead studs and rich red brocade. He propped the offending leg on the ottoman and gave Steve’s coat to Rahne, who wrinkled her nose at how it smelled, noticing the myriad tears.

“Can you clean it? And mend it?” Sam inquired.

“I’ll attempt it, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy and disappeared with it while Kate rolled the tea service into the room. There was a fat pot of tea, two cups on two fine, gold-rimmed saucers, a dish of sugar, and a plate of sliced bread beside a jar of strawberry preserves. Steve’s stomach growled at the sight of the food, but he waited for Sam to seat himself. Sam took the chair from behind his escritoire and pulled it beside the larger one, and he laid his hand on Steve’s arm, squeezing it. 

“Are you warm enough? Don’t be shy about telling me, if not,” Sam told him. “The last thing I want is for the chill to settle into your bones.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Steve said, and Sam noticed he was shivering. He slid his hand down to Steve’s hand, and it was like ice. He gripped it, and Steve’s shivers slowed.

“How long have you been out in this?” he asked as he motioned out the window. Sam’s face was full of sympathy, but Steve stared down into his lap. Then at the hand holding his. Sam’s hand was neatly manicured and smooth, not work-hardened or calloused. And it was so soft, strong and warm.

“I’ve lost track of how long, sir.”

“Sam.”

“Sam. I don’t… I don’t know, anymore.”

Sam was appalled.

“I’m a mess,” Steve told him. “I shouldn’t… I’ll soil your fine things, I shouldn’t be in your lovely home-”

“Yes, you should. You should be here, beside my fire, drinking tea with me and keeping me from pacing about within these four walls, listening to the clock tick.” Sam gave Steve’s hand a pat. “So. Drink your tea. Do you take it with sugar?”

“I’m not picky.”

“You can be,” Sam assured him.

“Then… I’d like it with sugar.”

Sam nodded, then served him a fragrant, generously sweetened cup. Steve’s hands shook as he sipped it, and the warmth traveled through him, down into his chest, and the fine china warmed his hands, relieving them of the numbness. Sam spread a slice of bread with jam and handed it to Steve, who bit into it with so much relish that Sam pitied him.

“Don’t stand on ceremony. Don’t worry about manners. Eat.”

And Steve fell on the bread hungrily, inhaling the first slice before Sam could spread another with jam. He managed to spoon one dollop on the end of it before Steve reached for it desperately, and he handed it over quickly. 

Steve felt ashamed, but the luxury of bread - fresh, flaky, made that day - in his mouth sent his senses reeling. It was impossible to stop eating once he’d begun. His next meal wasn’t guaranteed. He had no status. No title. No family to claim him if Sam inquired about his background.

But Sam just smiled and held up the pot. “More tea?”

Steve spoke around a mouthful, voice garbled. “Please.”

If Sam noticed Steve dashing tears from his eyes between bites, he didn’t mention it.


	2. In Awe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and his houseguest grow closer. His friends and household weigh in on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to treat this pairing as secondary to Stucky, but now I love it just as much, because I love Sam’s character so much. He deserves it.
> 
> Two more little chapters after this. Have some fluff. And Sam being charming.

Abraham palpated Steve’s chest with his thick-fingered, warm hands, and Steve coughed in response. It was a thick, miserable sound that made Sam wince.

“You’ve definitely caught the ague, young man. You’re a bit fevered.” He felt the sides of Steve’s neck, and Steve hissed in discomfort. “Swollen glands.” He continued his examination, and Steve couldn’t remember being poked and prodded so thoroughly since his mother passed. Abraham Erskine was a fatherly looking man with slightly unkempt white hair, longer than fashion dictated, and his reading spectacles magnified his friendly eyes. Abraham arrived shortly after Sam helped Steve freshen up.

*

Once Steve was settled upstairs in bed - Sam carried him upstairs again, despite Steve’s protests - Kate brought in the basin of warm water, and Sam helped Steve out of his torn shirt. Sam nodded to her.

“This isn’t the place for a lady right now, Mrs. Bishop.”

“Understood, Mr. Wilson.” She nodded to them and left, closing the door. She had already warmed the bed with the hot brick, and Steve expelled a breath at the softness and heat wrapped around him. Sam watched him with concern, and Steve felt ashamed at what he had to see when he looked at him. 

Thin. Barely any flesh on his bones, with jutting ribs and a knobby, slightly crooked spine. Pale skin sprayed with tiny freckles. Narrow shoulders and long, bony arms. Knuckles that were reddened and chapped from the cold, with broken, dirty nails. But Sam’s eyes were kind, various emotions living in their depths. He didn’t ask Steve how long it had been since he last had a bath. He merely wrung out the dampened rag and asked Steve, “Won’t you sit up, please?”

“Pardon?”

“I need to get your back.” Steve sat up, with some difficulty, making a face at the movement that jarred his bad leg. But once he was upright, Sam steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. He applied the rag over Steve’s nape, washing Steve’s back with care. “Once we have the doctor look at your leg, we’ll approach how to give you a proper bath. Tomorrow, I think. After breakfast.”

Breakfast. That implied that Sam meant to keep him overnight. Steve’s mind reeled at the thought of a night under a roof, safe from the chill and the uncertainties of the town at night. The soft swipes of the rag against his back felt so good, and Sam’s hands were gentle, fingers grazing his skin as he washed Steve. Sam dipped the rag again and wrung it out, then daubed up some of the fine soap with it before washing Steve’s shoulders and arms. Steve groaned and closed his eyes.

“I’ll cover you up before you catch another chill,” Sam promised.

“I’m all right,” Steve told him dreamily. “That… that feels nice.”

“This isn’t the sort of thing I do every day.”

“No?” Steve cracked open one eye, and he met Sam’s amused look. “This isn’t how you treat all of your houseguests?”

“Only after I hit them with my carriage and cart them upstairs.”

Steve huffed, then leaned forward when Sam returned to his back. There was such a stark contrast between Sam’s skin, a rich, burnished brown, and Steve’s fair complexion; Sam admired the difference, pausing for a moment to trace the line of Steve’s spine with his fingertip. Sam could count his vertebrae, easily. Steve shivered. “Oh. I apologize.”

“Gave me the willies.”

“Steve… when did you eat last?”

“Supper, downstairs. I recall that you witnessed it?” Steve grinned at him. Sam huffed at his cheekiness. “You might have even instigated it.”

“You relieved me of all my jam,” Sam agreed. “But, before supper. When, Steve?”

Steve sighed. “Yesterday, I think. I filched a couple of eggs from a henhouse.”

Sam looked appalled. “That was it?”

“I’m not proud of it,” Steve told him. Sam paused in washing him, and Steve’s eyes flitted away. Then, he took the rag from Sam and began to wash his own chest, which, admittedly, Sam was eyeing with the intent to tackle it next. “That’s not how I wish to live. I know how to make my way. I do.”

“I’m certain of that.” Sam would never allow Steve to think he wasn’t. Not with the hurt and frustration hunching his shoulders, the florid tinge in his pale cheeks. 

“There were debts that had to be paid. Undertakers are not free.”

Sam’s stomach coiled itself in a knot. “No. They are not.”

Steve saw the way Sam’s face closed itself off, and he felt a fresh wave of shame. He noticed Sam’s clothing for the first time. He’d removed the rich coat and cap, leaving him all in simple, elegant black. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms and smooth, faintly hairy skin. Steve had a fine down of sandy hair down his arms, but his chest was _dismally_ devoid of the coarse strands. 

All black.

Sam was still in mourning.

“Was it your wife?” Sam asked softly.

“No. I… I have no wife. That might be for the best. I have no means of… I have no one. I buried my mother.”

Steve chucked the rag back into the basin; the water was slightly gray and filmed with soap residue. “I have no connections. No kin. And there are few folk willing to offer employment to one such as me.”

“You’ll grow chilled.” Sam reached for the towels, and he draped them around Steve, beginning to rub him briskly. Steve didn’t object, and Sam’s eyes told him it was all right, that he would gladly hear his account of how he came to linger in alleys and scrounge for day-old bread.

“My mother was a nurse. A midwife, really, but she had a gift for healing. She sold some of her potions to the apothecary shop. It helped to put bread on the table. I came home from the university,” Steve explained,” just before last Christmas. Mother was already ailing. She had been for some time.”

Sam nodded, continuing to dry Steve off. His hands welcomed the task, and he was loathe to release him. 

“I lost her during the last week of January. I find it the cruelest time of the year, Sam.”

“Yes, it can be,” Sam agreed. 

“I lost my father a handful of winters before,” Steve continued, and Sam felt another pang, hands slowing in their movements, until they merely rested on Steve’s shoulders, warming the surface of the towels. “I’m sorry,” he realized, staring up at Sam with sad eyes. “I shouldn’t trouble you with my tales-”

“It’s no trouble,” Sam insisted. His thumbs stroked the crests of those shoulders, and he fought the urge to-

“Sir,” Simon called from downstairs.

“Yes?” Sam heard the tremor in his voice and mentally scolded himself. He released Steve quickly. Steve felt bereft when he removed his warmth and comforting presence. Sam exited the suite and trotted down the stairs, and he smiled in relief as Simon let the doctor inside, taking his cap and coat.

“It’s a night not fit for a dog out there,” he remarked.

“I need you to examine my new acquaintance who has been out in it too long.”

“Simon mentioned that he came here under less than ideal circumstances.” The doctor’s wry tone made Sam’s face shutter, and he sighed.

“Less than ideal, indeed. I think his leg might be broken.”

“A fracture?” Abraham nodded for Simon to follow him upstairs with his large, black leather medicine bag.

Abraham frowned immediately when he opened the door to Steve shedding the towels and fumbling with the shirt. “Leave that off, if you don’t mind. Good evening.”

“Sir. Good evening.”

“Doctor,” he corrected him. “Dr. Erskine, to be precise.” He reached out to shake Steve’s hand, and he frowned again at how chilled it was, noticing a chilblain on his thumb. “You need my attention.”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Steve admitted as he laid the shirt aside. Sam took it, draping it over his arm. He stroked it absently and sat in the high-backed chair in the corner while Abraham conducted his examination. Sympathy flooded Sam’s chest when Abraham urged Steve to uncover himself fully so that he could see his leg. When Abraham rolled up the leg of his trousers, Steve gritted his teeth against the discomfort, and Sam felt fresh guilt at the sight of the bruising and the clearly broken bone.

“Mr. Wilson,” Abraham told him,” I suggest you have one of your servants bring up a bit of cognac. Or, perhaps whisky if you have it.”

“Of course, but may I ask why?”

“I need to set this bone.” His expression wasn’t solemn.

“Will the whisky… help?”

“It might help him. But I’m suggesting it for _you_.”

Because Sam had paled, and his expression was absolutely sick at the thought of Steve experiencing that sort of pain, after the events of the day.

*

Abraham was absolutely right. When he set the bone, Steve’s screams were ragged and tortured, and Sam nearly passed out. Steve’s leg was wrapped in a heavy splint, and Abraham watched Sam cradle Steve in his arms, shaking as he went to him, and tipping a glass of whisky to his lips. Steve nearly choked on its harsh, acrid taste, and it burned on the way down, but it quieted his brain’s alarms that his leg felt like someone attempted to twist it into a knot. And Sam’s hair, the light pomade, and his skin smelled so nice, and his warm bulk felt like heaven beneath his cheek. Sam offered him more whisky, and Steve drank it gratefully.

“Well. We’ve had our nightcap,” Abraham quipped, rubbing his hands. “Now, let’s attend to his fever.”

Sam looked blank. “He’s feverish, then?”

“Yes. Put the shirt on him. Keep the room warm, but don’t overbundle him in the blankets. Cool rags. Use this tonic,” Abraham told him. “Swab down his skin with it.” It smelled like witch hazel when Sam opened the small bottle. “And give him this in another couple of hours. It will help the pain.” He handed Sam a small tin of pills. “Plenty of liquids. Clear soups. Send your cook to the market to purchase some fruit. Oranges. Lemons. They will boost his resistance.” Abraham loaded Sam down with more medicines, balms and liniments than Sam had ever used on himself, rattling off detailed instructions on how to best care for Steve while he was Sam’s guest.

Sam realized that Steve’s recovery might take longer than he previously thought.

This didn’t trouble him at all.

Out of propriety, Sam lowered Steve down to the pillows and pulled the sheet and blanket up over his chest, which was rising and falling more evenly, thanks to a eucalyptus balm that Abraham rubbed on his chest and throat. He gazed up blearily at Sam.

“Sam?”

“Yes, Steve? What else can I do for you, this evening?”

“Promise. Promise me. That you won’t run over me with your carriage, again.”

Abraham held back a cough of laughter before packing his things into his medicine bag. Steve’s smile was serene. Sam guessed that he had the whisky to thank for it.

*

Sam saw the doctor out, dismissed Simon for the night, and bade Kate and Rahne good night. He retired to his own suite, but not before peeking inside Steve’s cracked door. His breathing was still thick with congestion, but he was resting peacefully. Sam’s heart went out to him, and protectiveness surged through him.

Steve deserved shelter and warm meals. Steve needed to be cared for, and Sam was certainly capable of providing him with those needs. Willing. He knew he shouldn’t take advantage of Steve’s injuries and illness, but his house was so empty, the hours passing slowly, lonely and bleak. Sam changed into his night clothes and said his prayers, then climbed between the sheets that smelled faintly of lavender, thanks to the sachets that Rahne tucked into them before she folded them and stored them in the linen chests.

Sam fell asleep, arms heavy with the imagined weight of Steve wrapped within them. 

*

Kate, Rahne and Rahne’s fiance Sam arrived early the next morning. Sam greeted them in the kitchen, garbed in his dressing robe and slippers. Sam was preparing a pot of tea, before Kate relieved him of the chore.

“Sir, good morning. Allow me! Don’t trouble yourself!” She relieved him of the pot and the kettle, which he had just filled with water. Rahne gave him a look of reproach and fetched teacups from the cupboard and the jar of sugar. To Sam’s delight, Rahne revealed a burlap sack of fresh lemons.

“My mum always gushed over fresh lemons whenever we could get them,” she explained. “It will fix what ails him, sir. Might help his scratchy throat. And ease that cough.”

“Clever girl,” Sam told her, giving her arm a squeeze. Rahne beamed and blushed, and she went to slice two of the lemons into wedges, setting them in a small bowl. Kate and Rahne then shooed Sam out of the kitchen - respectfully - and fussed over the tea tray, and they set about preparing breakfast for two.

Sam’s went to his suite and heard stirring from Steve’s room, but he didn’t open the door yet. Sam washed himself at the basin in his room after pouring in the steaming, hot water from the pot that Kate prepared for him. His eyes had bags under them from his fitful sleep, but he felt refreshed after he washed. Sam dressed and groomed himself quickly. His hand had hesitated over a black shirt, but he chose a cream-colored one, instead, and a dark gray vest and trousers. He didn’t want his houseguest to mistake him for an undertaker, surely…

Simon arrived outside; Sam heard him wiping his feet on the front mat as he entered the house. Sam greeted him with a smile.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Wilson. You look as though you haven’t slept much.”

“It was a rough night, but we weathered it.”

“How is he?” Simon still looked worried, hating the role he played in Steve’s injury.

“More comfortable. Warmer,” Sam explained. “Cleaner,” he also allowed. Simon smiled wryly, nodding.

“Good.”

“He will be.”

“Who will tend him? Am I taking you to the shop?”

“Not yet. I need to prevail upon a friend for a favor,” Sam told him. “But I want to get Steve settled.”

“That’s his name?”

“Steven Rogers.”

“Rogers…” Simon’s face held a faraway look. “Wait. Sarah Rogers’ son?”

“Did you know his mother?” Sam’s voice was a little too enthusiastic before he schooled it and his expression, but Simon nodded, smiling again.

“She was kind. I’d wondered about her son. I remember him when he was just a lad. All knobby knees and elbows like he is now, and a little towhead. Always getting into everything. Bright,” Simon told him. “I never knew where he got off to. I had been away when she passed,” Simon reminded him. “When I was visiting my sister that month.” Sam remembered spending that month on horseback in lieu of hiring another coachman. He hadn’t attended the funeral, but he heard his neighbors talking about how their humble community had lost its finest midwife. He didn’t know her, and he didn’t make inquiries into what - or whom - she might have left behind.

“He’s not much different,” Simon added, interrupting Sam’s musings. “Not much bigger, anyway. You should feed him up a bit.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Sam agreed, sighing. “He eats like a horse.” He clapped Simon’s shoulder. “Even puts you to shame.” Simon was tall and brawny, and he had a capacious appetite.

“I doubt that, sir.”

“We won’t go to the shop, yet. Go check the carriage and the horses, in the meantime. I will fetch you when I’m ready.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

The house soon filled with the aromas of eggs and sausage. Sam followed Rahne upstairs as she brought up the heavy, well-laden tray. Sam took it from her, beckoning to her to let him bring it inside Steve’s room.

“He may be indisposed,” Sam explained.

“Of course, sir.” She curtsied and went back down, and Sam gently knocked before nudging open the door.

It was just as well that Rahne removed herself from the chore of serving them. Steve was, indeed, indisposed. His hair was a tousled, golden mess, and in sleep, his shirt was askew, covers thrown aside. His shirt gapped at the neckline and was partly unlaced, revealing a pale patch of his chest, and the hem rode up, exposing that flat - nearly concave - belly.

He was snoring, fingers clutching the pillow beneath his head, but his cheeks weren’t so flushed anymore. “Steve,” Sam cajoled, raising his voice slightly, “rise and shine. It’s time to share this fine breakfast with me.”

Steve made a reluctant noise, and Sam chuckled. “Too… loud, Sam.”

“Does my voice offend your sensitive ears?”

“No. It just… hurts my sensitive head. My tongue feels like I licked gravel.”

Sam laughed outright.

“No more whisky,” Steve groaned.

“No. Tea. With lemon,” Sam promised him as he set down the tray. Steve sat up a little and straightened his shirt, and when he noticed Sam staring at him, he blushed.

It was… cute. Sam restrained the urge to reach out and smooth down Steve’s staticky hair.

Steve rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took in Sam’s appearance, liking what he saw. Sam’s clothing was less severe, and the cream shirt was becoming against his dark skin. He was groomed for the day and stunning, making Steve regret his own shabby appearance even _more_. At least he no longer smelled like a pail of slops, the voices in his head chorused. “Are you going out?” Steve asked. “Do you… do you need me to make myself scarce? I can-”

“No, you cannot,” Sam corrected him, voice firm. “You can’t even walk. Where would you even take yourself on that leg? You’re staying in bed today. I want to see you eat everything I put on your plate. If you like, we can bathe you again.”

Steve flushed deeply this time, rubbing his nape. “You don’t have to fuss over me.”

Sam began to serve Steve’s plate with generous portions, ladling scrambled eggs onto the fine china. “I know that.”

They chatted and joked while they ate. Sam learned that Steve was Sarah’s only child, and that Steve studied fine arts while he was at the university, an unconventional choice. What he truly longed to do was teach people how to create inspiring works themselves and capture the beauty that surrounded them. 

“I couldn’t afford to return. It was a pipe dream, perhaps.”

“It was _your_ dream,” Sam reminded him as he filched a piece of sausage off of Steve’s plate before Steve could swat it away. Sam refilled Steve’s teacup, squeezing in a healthy amount of lemon. “There’s nothing wrong with imagining finer things for yourself. They aren’t out of your grasp if you reach for them, Steven.”

“I might not have a long enough reach.”

His tone was rueful. Sam spread his toasted bread with a lump of pale, creamy white butter.

“Perhaps we can make it longer.”

Steve’s brows drew together. “Where did you say you had to be today, again?”

“My shop.”

“I’m not keeping you?”

“My employer won’t scold me for being late. Since I’m him. I own it. I inherited it from my father.”

That explained the opulence of his home, the rich food and Sam’s impeccable, stylish clothing. How he could afford the services of a physician and the medications. 

“I have no one else ordering me about,” Sam mused. “Which means I can linger over breakfast.”

Steve righted his bed clothes, and Sam wrapped him in a fresh robe, allowing Rahne to clear away the tray without compromising Steve’s modesty. Sam gave Steve his medicines and then helped him with another bath.

It was no less intimate than the first, even though Steve initially joked, “Are you going to polish me like a silver platter, again?” as Sam brought in the fresh basin.

Sam’s smile faded. A cloud of awkwardness hung between them. “Oh. Would you prefer it, if…?”

“Sam. I was teasing. I’m… sorry. Actually,” Steve said, wishing to recover the moment, “I was hoping that, maybe you could get my back. Again.”

Sam nodded, trying but failing to hide his little, pleased smile.

Steve removed the shirt, and Sam started with his back again, and Steve groaned with pleasure. It was a deep, throaty sound that made Sam shiver, warmth pooling in his loins.

“You shouldn’t get your splint wet,” Sam advised Steve.

“My legs aren’t any cleaner than the rest of me,” Steve muttered. “It’s been far too long since I saw a bar of proper soap.” He nodded to the basin. “Or warm water.”

“Where did you sleep?” Sam was caressing his skin with the rag, cleansing the lean planes of his body, the vulnerable curve of his neck, the bend of his elbows. Steve didn’t take the rag from him when he swabbed at his chest. He hovered over Steve, standing behind him while Steve sat up in bed again, and Steve leaned back against him to give him access to his front.

At the touch of Steve’s head settling back against Sam’s belly, Sam’s heart thumped, then sped up. His eyes dilated with a flush of sudden, unbridled desire. Sam licked his lips, stunned at his own reaction to Steve. To touching him, laying hands on him. It was a strange, reverent experience.

“I slept wherever I wouldn’t get chased off. Under a bridge, sometimes. In shacks, when they weren’t locked. Barns were nice.”

“ _Steve._ ” Sam was aghast. How had Steve managed with so little? With no support or assistance?

With no affection?

Because Steve was still leaning back against him, and Sam grew a little drunk with the sensation of touching him, almost cradling him. He didn’t even notice when his vest developed damp, dark spots from the stray droplets of water pearling on Steve’s skin. Steve opened his eyes, craning his head up and gazing at Sam. They were so clear and blue; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed roughly, and he bit his lip.

“I think… that’s clean, now.”

“What about… your legs?” Sam’s mouth was dry, and his mouth didn’t want to cooperate. 

It wanted to taste those pink, slightly chapped lips that he couldn’t take his eyes off of.

“Those trousers will have to come off.” Sam couldn’t believe how ridiculous he’d been, letting Steve sleep in them, scolding himself for being a poor host. And nurse.

“You might have to help me.” And Steve felt embarrassed, too exposed already, but his cheeks were flaming. Sam’s touch was stimulating and tender, the look on his face sensuous and owning some emotion that Steve couldn’t recognize. Sam wrapped Steve’s shoulders up in the towels, and Steve eased himself down in bed again once Sam moved to allow him. 

“I can undo them,” Steve explained, “but you will have to pull them off.”

“The splint,” Sam reminded him. “They might not come off easily, if-”

“You can cut them. I have another pair.” Just as shabby as these, he didn’t add. Sam’s face held regret. There was no help for it. Sam went to fetch the shears, and when he came back, he paused a moment, rubbing the cuff of Steve’s trousers between his fingers, where it had been rolled above his knee. Steve already undid the buttons at the waist. The trousers were loose and hung a bit on his frame as it was. Sam painstakingly began to cut them, from the rolled hem up the outer side seam, slowly revealing Steve’s pale thigh. Steve’s hand abruptly stopped his progress, making Sam pause. Steve’s hand was wrapped around Sam’s, and Sam’s pulse jumped.

“Just to give you a word of warning, Samuel. I,” Steve explained, eyes flitting away for a moment, then pinning Sam with a chagrined look. “My britches. They’re gone. They were old, and weren’t suitable for wear, anymore.”

“Oh.” The voices in Sam’s head chided him again, This isn’t the time to stand on ceremony, Sam. Steve’s inner voices told him, in tandem with Sam’s, that he needed to put pride aside, for now, and that Sam had already seen most of him, in his questionable glory. Steve raised his hips off the bed, and Sam cut away the pants, snipping all the way through the waistband. He exposed Steve’s vulnerable hip, the crease of his groin, and Sam dragged his eyes down as he tugged off Steve’s ruined trousers, no longer a threat to his splinted leg. 

Steve schooled himself to think calm thoughts. He closed his eyes, and he fought the urge to moan at the sensation of the warm cloth slicking over his good leg. Sam gently bent his knee and ran the cloth over his calf, not taking any liberties, but he was dangerously close to his sensitive parts.

Sam was, frankly, in hell.

Steve’s body was compact and thin, but he was still a man, with all of the prerequisite attributes, and his own body reacted harshly to the sight of him. His legs were slim but still well-muscled, no doubt from spending so much time on foot, and they were dusted with sandy hair, and his manhood…

Sam itched to touch it, to watch it twitch to life under his ministrations, but he circumvented it, barely swiping over the dents of Steve’s groin as he attended his bad leg. He gently washed his thigh, then covered Steve with another towel.

“You have other clothing?”

“I do. Bundled up in my blanket.”

Sam retrieved it for him, and he suppressed his dismay at the state of these clothes, too, and the lack of britches, but he took out one of the two shirts, glad that it would cover him for the time being.

“You’ll stay in bed today,” Sam informed him. “We need to remedy your lack of suitable clothing.”

Steve’s chin jutted indignantly. “What I have will do, Sam!”

“For an afternoon of rest, but not for polite company.”

“Are you calling yourself ‘polite company’?” Steve challenged. Sam caught the slight curl of Steve’s mouth, even though he tried to suppress it. 

“You, sir,” Sam told him solemnly, “are a terrible man.”

It would prove to be one of Sam’s favorite traits of Steve’s, over time.

*

Sam had Simon drive him into town, regretting leaving him over the entire ride. Steve used the chamber pot before he left, guaranteeing him a more comfortable rest, and Sam made sure he took his medicines and was bundled back up. He resisted the urge to kiss his brow and smooth back that hair, because that was a liberty that he shouldn’t even imagine, let alone take from Steve, not in his compromised state.

Still.

He was just so appealing.

Sam had Simon stop at a familiar house surrounded by a neat, white fence. Sam tramped up the front path and rapped on the door with the heavy brass knocker. He was already tapping the snow from his shoes when he heard light footsteps approach. James’ housekeeper, Roberta, opened the door to him and curtsied.

“It’s been so long since you graced us with your presence, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Barnes will be so pleased.”

“Is he up and about?” Sam inquired, half-serious. 

“He’s up. And opinionated about it. He had a late night, last night.” She stared up into his face. “So did you, sir, from the look of it.” She took his coat, and Sam was grateful that the house was warm. She’d already stoked up the fire in the sitting room, and he smelled bread baking in the kitchen.

“Miss Morse,” Sam asked, “does James have a full agenda today?”

“Again, Mr. Wilson, he had a _late_ night. He has no plans, or at least none that he’s made me aware of.”

“Perfect.” Roberta, who preferred Bobbi, ushered him into the kitchen. James was seated at the breakfast nook, enjoying a cup of black coffee and a scone with strawberry jam. He grinned when he saw Sam, beckoning for him to sit.

“Fine morning for you to visit me.” James was unshaven and his long, sable brown hair hung loose, down to his shoulders. He wore his dressing gown and night shirt, feet shod with heavy slippers and stockings against the chill. His eyes took in Sam’s neat appearance with admiration. “Headed to the shop? It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“I had a delay. There was a matter at home that needed my attention.”

“A matter at home?”

“A houseguest,” Sam continued.

James’ brows drew together. “Ah.”

 

Because James, too, had been Sam’s houseguest, overnight.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Name it, Sam.” James leaned forward in his seat, and he covered Sam’s hand with his. His skin was warm, and Sam felt the same urge to find shelter in his embrace, a luxury he no longer claimed. Discretion was a convention they finally bowed to, but they still enjoyed a rich, enduring friendship. “It’s yours.”

“I need you to sit with my charge. My patient,” he clarified.

James wrinkled his brow. “Patient?”

“He’s injured. And he’s very ill. Kate and Rahne can tend to his meals, but for the sake of discretion, it would be best if they didn’t manage his other needs. He may also grow bored, being in bed. I need to see to the matter of getting him some decent clothes. I had to ruin a pair of trousers to bathe him-”

“You _bathed_ him?” James eyes snapped open wide. “You were his nurse?”

“I’m his host,” Sam argued, sighing, but James’s face broke into a slow, smug grin.

“You. Sly. Dog.”

“Bucky…” Sam used the nickname that they reserved for between the sheets, and Roberta exited the kitchen, deciding that the sitting room needed dusting.

“What’s he like?”

“Sick,” Sam reminded him. “And all alone. He had an unfortunate mishap.”

“What sort of mishap, may I ask?”

“He fell under my carriage. Simon and I hit him when he darted into the street.”

James clapped his hand over his mouth, smothering what sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“Bucky. _Bucky._.”

“Good Lord, man,” Bucky gasped, doubling over in his seat. His cheeks reddened over the edge of his fingers, still clapped over his mouth.

“It was unfortunate,” Sam insisted. “He was running from this horrible man, over the matter of some stale bread.”

That brought James up short. “Stale?”

“He has no home. He was scrounging in an alley. Behind a bakery.”

That sobered James quickly. “Oh, Sam. Then you’re truly lost. Aren’t you?”

“What?”

“I know you.” James pointed to him, shaking his finger, eyes shining with remembered affection for him. “You and your enormous heart. You want to protect him.”

“I injured him! And he’s so sick! I couldn’t leave him out in the cold!”

“So,” James said, smug smile still in place.

“So, what?”

“Did you warm him up last night?”

“BUCKY!”


	3. Assumptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve slowly begins to mend under Sam’s roof, and gets to know his kind host. The boys have feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just following the prompt, so here comes a little angst tucked in with the fluff. But I’ll sweeten this again soon, I promise. *ducks rotten tomatoes* To anyone who has stopped by to comment, thank you so much.

“Are you warm enough, Stevie?”

“I was about three blankets ago,” he replied, even as he smoothed down the one Bucky had tucked in around him. Truthfully, Steve had begun to sweat from his place by the fireplace, situated on that nailhead chair, splinted leg propped on the ottoman. “I’m perfectly comfortable, now. You needn’t go to such trouble on my account.”

“Needn’t I?” Bucky pulled up the high-backed chair and settled himself in it before retrieving his cup of tea. “Sam would skin me alive if I were to let you catch a chill.”

“Did he threaten any punishment for smothering me under all of his bedding?” 

Bucky smirked over the edge of his cup. “No. He was my accomplice, didn’t you know?”

Steve didn’t doubt it for a moment.

Sam. Oh, Sam.

He’d been solicitous, and cheerful. And so attentive. And in lieu of his efforts, once Sam went to the shop, Steve merely had to _think_ that the house was too silent without him, before he heard the hoofbeats on the cobbles outside, followed shortly by the slam of a carriage door, brisk footsteps coming up the front walk, and the sharp raps at the door. And inside swept one James Buchanan Barnes, tall, rugged and resplendent in his top hat and great coat, deep red wool muffler knotted at his throat.

The first time they met, Steve heard his voice at the bottom of the stairs; Rahne giggled at something he said before she led him up to Steve’s suite. Steve found himself grateful that Sam had found him a sleeping shirt long enough to cover him, and that he was tucked under the blankets. Rahne gently tapped against the door and murmured, “Mr. Rogers, sir? You have a guest, if you don’t mind?”

“You can… you can call me Steven, if you wish,” he reminded her.

“No, sir. I shan’t.”

“Well. All right, then.” Steve flushed, still unfamiliar with the address, with Rahne, or Kate, or any of Sam’s other servants treating him as though he had any station. He felt, somehow, as though he was deceiving them, somehow. Giving them the impression of undeserved worth. But Rahne peeked inside and gave him a warm smile, laced with mischief, and then she stepped aside to let James into the room.

Steve’s breath caught. _Sam’s friends came in such a wide variety_ , and Steve decided he had a preference for this type, tall, strong and reliable-looking, with laughing blue-gray eyes and a deep, rumbling voice. He was statuesque and handsome, with skin like peaches, an angular jaw and a wicked cleft in his chin. The smile he shone on Steve was broad and easy, as though he had a lot of practice.

“Sam doesn’t usually make new acquaintances this way. That wasn’t how he introduced himself to me, anyway,” James told him as he offered Steve his hand. Steve schooled his expression, and he chastised his own eyes, keeping them on James’ face, his coat, anywhere else but the pinned-up sleeve of his coat. His left arm ended at the elbow; that didn’t weaken the grip of his hand when he shook Steve’s, nor dim the intensity of his eyes.

“This way?”

“Running them over with his carriage.” Rahne covered her mouth, smothering a laugh, and Steve flushed.

“How did you two meet, then?”

“At a ball. It was abominably dull. Sam had signed his share of dance cards for the night. After his last reel, I invited him out onto the balcony for some air. And for a glass of port. Poor vintage. I told him that I had a fine sherry that would be more to his liking in my study.”

And Steve’s visitor’s eyes filled in details, answered Steve’s unasked questions. “I had no dance card for him to sign, so we rested our feet.”

Steve’s face heated up. 

“Does… does he like to dance?”

James smiled again, and this time, his expression was fond. “Indeed. He’s more at home on the dance floor than I am.”

That intrigued Steve. “You like to dance?”

“Very much.” And James swept off his cap, handing it to Rahne. He raised his left arm, briefly. “This doesn’t stop me from leading a lady in a reel.”

“No. It doesn’t.” And this time, Steve smiled. “I’m Steven, by the way.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” his guest told him, shaking his hand again, as though he was looking for another opportunity to do so. “But Sam prefers to call me Bucky.” He unfastened the buttons and began to shrug out of his coat, and Rahne caught it, helping him the rest of the way.

“I’ll hang these downstairs, sir. In the study, so they can dry.” A light snow had begun to fall outside, and Bucky’s coat was speckled with flakes that were beginning to melt.

“That’s where we will convene,” Bucky told her. He gave Steve a pointed look. “You’ll go mad if you’re stuck here all day long, if you haven’t already.”

“I’m comfortable,” Steve argued. “I can’t walk, I broke my leg. I can’t make my way downstairs.”

“You can’t. I can make your way.”

Steve turned beet red, shaking his head.

“Oh. Really, you mustn’t-”

“I must. You haven’t seen the rest of the house, an oversight I plan on correcting. Sam has some lovely paintings and etchings. And he always keeps the study warm. You’ll catch a chill up here.”

“I don’t… have proper trousers.”

“We will improvise.”

 

That was two days ago.

 

Sam had surprised Steve later that evening with parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. When Steve opened them, he found clothing, a handful of pairs of new britches, and two pairs of trousers. “Oh, Sam… this is too much, you didn’t have to do this!”

“Steve. Yes, I did. For the sake of decency, you need these. I wouldn’t hold you captive in bed, under the blankets, just because you had no pants.” Sam grinned at him, and it was infectious. Steve ducked his face into his palm, then peeked at Sam through his fingers, earning himself Sam’s laughter.

Steve managed his way into the britches once Sam stepped out of the room, refusing the help he offered with those out of pride, and Sam gave him a look of understanding as he gently closed the door, but he lingered in the corridor in case he called to him for assistance. It was a struggle, trying to maneuver his way into the britches with his splinted leg, but Steve managed it, grateful that the garment was loose. He buttoned the waist, lying on his back to accomplish this, and by the time he managed to pull down the hem of the sleeping shirt again, he was winded.

Sam peeked inside again, noticing how out of breath he sounded, and he hurried forward. “Don’t overdo it.”

“I just need a minute,” Steve assured him.

“I like it better when you’re covered,” Sam countered, planting his hand on his hip and giving Steve a look. “And we can both get that done more quickly if you aren’t rolling around like a dog scratching an itch in the grass.”

“Do you always fuss this much?”

“I’m not being fussy.”

“When you just barge inside and start comparing me to a dog with an itch and look at me like you’re planning to manhandle me, I would describe that as ‘fussy.’”

“I’m not fussing. I’m helping, Steven.” But Sam’s brow quirked, and his attempt to suppress his smile failed. Miserably. 

That smile was like sunshine, and it was Steve’s undoing.

“And I don’t ‘manhandle.’”

Steve felt a frisson of guilt. “No. I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just… odd, accepting this much help from anyone. I’m used to doing for myself.”

Sam’s face softened. “When we get you back to feeling tip-top, then you can again. Until then, can I help you?”

Steve ducked his face and stared down at his hands, and then he sighed. He peeked back up at Sam, and he smiled, resigned. The set of Sam’s shoulders relaxed a bit when he did.

“You _do_ fuss.”

“Understood.”

And Sam was careful with Steve’s leg as they maneuvered him into the trousers. Sam explained that Natasha, a seamstress and close friend of his, had donated them from her shop, from an order that a previous customer never paid for once they were completed. They were large and baggy on Steve, but their looseness served the purpose of Steve being able to get his leg into them, splint and all. Sam had Kate rummage in his clothing trunks and she found a belt for Steve; they managed to secure the pants around Steve’s bony waist. Steve was grateful that now Rahne and Kate could come and go as they pleased, without compromising discretion.

*

Steve’s first trip downstairs, on Bucky’s visit, taxed his sense of dignity even further when Bucky carried him. Steve argued with him at length, even as Bucky finished helping him into his clothes. Bucky had no reservations about seeing Steve in dishabille, nor about helping him dress; his touch was respectful and gentle, like Sam’s, and he didn’t take any liberties, or make any comments on Steve’s physique (or his lack thereof). Steve clung to Bucky, arms wrapped around his neck, and Bucky swung him up against him, right arm looped under Steve’s legs and carried him like he weighed no more than a feather. Steve was impressed by how the house looked during the day, having no opportunity to see it the night he was brought inside. 

The walls were whitewashed and bright, and the corridors were decorated with paintings and etchings, as Bucky had promised, as well as tapestries and vases that looked exquisite and costly. Bucky carried them over a Persian rug that Steve would have hesitated to step on, himself, if he were able to walk. “It’s so grand,” he murmured.

“Darlene ran a tight ship. Sam’s mother,” Bucky explained. “She knew how to run a household.” Bucky’s voice took on a sad note as they reached the study, which was slightly dark and chilled. “I’m going to start a fire,” he said as he carefully set Steve on the red nailhead chair. He took a tasseled blanket from over the side of the fainting chaise and tucked it around Steve.

“It might have been less trouble for Kate to bring up a hot brick,” Steve pointed out.

“It’s no trouble at all to free you from the confines of that bed. Sam would agree, if he were here. And he wanted to be, but he still has a shop to run.”

“So. He asked you to stay here, with me, while he’s gone?” Steve felt prickly with the implications: Perhaps Sam was worried that Steve would try to steal from him?”

“He was worried about you. You were in a bad way, from what he shared with me.” Bucky eyed him, taking in his gauntness, pale skin and listening to his breathing, which still sounded labored. “And I feel better, myself, knowing you aren’t alone, if I’m being honest. Steve, would you care for some tea?”

“Only… only if you’re planning to have some, yourself.”

Bucky smiled, eyes crinkling, and Steve automatically felt at ease. “Then, I guess I want some tea.”

Kate was already boiling the kettle when Bucky came into the kitchen, and Cook was busily cutting the dough for some scones, which pleased him. They were Sam’s favorite, with black currants. She also had a pot of oranges cooking down on the back of the stove for marmalade.

“Does Sam have sugar? Make sure there’s some for his tea. He’s too thin,” Bucky told them. He tugged on his hair, clubbed back at his nape with a black satin ribbon. “How on earth could he have managed?”

“Poorly,” Rahne sniffed. “Simon said he ran right into the carriage! There was a man chasing him for a loaf of stale bread.”

Bucky’s lips were a tight, thin line. “Then we won’t make him run again. Or make off with old crumbs, will we?”

That sobered Cook, Rahne and Kate, and they made haste with the tea cart. Bucky saw a stray orange on the butcher’s table, and he relieved them of it, whistling as he made his way down the corridor, back to Steve. Sam’s houseguest looked relieved to see him again, and he shrugged down further beneath the blanket.

“That fire,” Bucky remembered, and he handed Steve the orange. He looked pleased with the gift.

“I haven’t had fruit in so long.”

“You need it,” Bucky told him as he selected a log and set it in the grate. “Oranges warm the blood. Did that doctor who set your leg give you any medicines?”

“Many,” Steve told him, making a face. “They aren’t the most pleasant-tasting things, but I can breathe easier. It’s a vast improvement.”

So, they chatted by a roaring fire. Bucky took down a few selections from Sam’s bookcase, and soon he was reading Steve the poems of Lord Tennyson in bold, dramatic tones. Steve sat, charmed and rapt, pleased through and through that someone cared enough about him to watch after him while he was ailing.

*

Sam returned home from the shop just after dark, stamping his boots off on the mat to keep from dripping snow across the planks. Rahne hurried to take his coat. “Mr. Wilson! Mr. Barnes has been waiting for you to return home before he leaves. He’s in the study with Mr. Rogers.”

Sam’s brows drew together, but then he grinned. “In the study? How did they manage such a trip?”

“Easily,” Rahne told him.

“This, I must see with my own eyes.” 

“I was worried that you’d been waylaid by someone else throwing themselves under Simon’s wheels,” Bucky called out to Sam as he entered the study. The fire was fading a bit, but the room was still toasty, and Sam was pleased to see Steve up, dressed and bundled up - perhaps overbundled, judging by his pink ears and cheeks - and smiling up at him.

“You’re home,” he pronounced.

“You’ve eaten?” Sam inquired.

“Yes. And very well.”

“This one,” Bucky said, pointing at Steve, “has an appetite of a longshoreman home on leave.”

“We had _scones_ , Sam,” Steve explained. “Scones! With butter and _currants_!”

“I managed to leave you one,” Kate told Sam. “Had to hide it from these two.” Bucky gave her a betrayed look, but she hurried off before she could receive any reprisal.

“I work long, arduous hours in my shop, then come home to empty cupboards,” Sam opined, but he joined Steve by the chair, lightly touching his shoulder. “You look better.”

“You sent me an attentive nanny,” Steve said, eyes twinkling. Bucky rolled his eyes, reached for a throw pillow on the chaise, and flung it at Steve, who yelped when it bopped him in the face. The impact knocked his hair askew, and it stuck up a little around his face. Sam cackled, earning himself Steve’s indignant look.

“Oh, that’s how you treat the man with the broken leg?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to toughen you up a bit,” Bucky teased. Then he turned to Sam, apologies in his eyes. “Sam. I must go. I need to see Natasha about a suit.”

“She’s got an entire slate of orders. Best to put your name in, now.”

“She said business has picked up considerably since the Maximoffs sent out their invitations.” Then Bucky paused. “Are you going? To the ball?”

Sam’s face looked bewildered for a moment. “Blast,” he murmured, then he glanced at Steve. “That’s right.That’s soon, isn’t it?”

“It’s in a week,” Bucky clarified, raising his brows. “It’s not like you to forget a ball.”

“I didn’t forget. It just… wasn’t my principle focus,” Sam chided.

Steve wrinkled his brow at that, then huddled down in the blankets.

“I’m going to Nat’s. If I see something that catches my eye, I’ll mention when I make my way back this way.” Bucky gave Sam an assessing look. “Wanda will be disappointed if you don’t make an appearance.”

“She’ll be the center of attention, and she’ll receive a lot of offers.”

“Sam. A word.” Bucky’s grip on Sam’s arm was insistent, and Sam gave Steve an apologetic look. “Steve, I expect you to have eaten a generous supper when I come back tomorrow. Good night.”

“I won’t disappoint you, and good night, Bucky.” Steve gave him a cavalier wave, then sighed through his nose as Bucky took Sam with him from the study. 

In the corridor, Sam helped Bucky back into his coat and paused to do up his buttons. Bucky stopped him at the second one, pushing his hand away. “I know you’re worried about him. I know his care is an adequate distraction. And he’s appealing,” Bucky told him.

“A distraction?” 

“Your mother and father, bless their souls, wouldn’t have wanted you to spend the rest of your life mourning their loss. Or for you to be alone. But… I know you like to take in strays, Sam.”

Sam drew back, and his hand clenched at his side. “What are you saying?”

“I’m hardly one to talk, but it’s time for you to think about settling down. You need to make public appearances. Accept invitations to balls and the opera. Sign a few dance cards.” 

Sam shook his head. “I’m all right, as I am, Bucky.”

“You’re lonely. You lost your family and went into mourning at the worst possible time. When you should have been courting. You’ve been through so much. And you shouldn’t have to go through it alone. You’re a good man, Samuel.”

“So are you,” Sam challenged. “You’re the pot, calling the kettle black.”

Bucky ruefully held up his left arm, then let it drop. 

“Go to the ball, Sam. Get out and about.”

“I should shop around for a wife, when I’m not yet - and may never be - in the market for one?”

Bucky’s expression was dubious. “What we had… it wouldn’t… it didn’t-”

“Bucky.” Sam took Bucky’s hand in his, curling their fingers together. Sam leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I don’t want to give anyone unfair expectations of my marital intentions. What we had was _wonderful_. I just can’t help thinking that I might have been _your_ distraction, Bucky. From the same life you think I should pursue for myself. Am I wrong?”

“Sam…”

“You’re wonderful.”

Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes. He kissed Sam back, a brief peck of reproach. “I overindulge you. I expect to see you at the ball.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky held up his hand. “In silk tie and tails. I expect to speak to every lady present and see your name scrawled on every dance card in the room.”

“Only if Steve’s comfort is assured while I’m gone,” Sam reminded him. Bucky shook his head, and he chuckled.

“All right. I’ll accept that as your response that you plan to attend.”

“I will send response to Erik, as well, then.” Even though Sam was reluctant. After all, he _did_ have a houseguest to consider, and Steve’s comfort was paramount to him. “Bucky? What you said… Steve, he. He isn’t… a stray.”

Bucky sobered. “No. You’re right. He isn’t.”

Sam saw Bucky out. He went upstairs to change out of his shop clothes, and he came back down in a comfortable lounging jacket and in his stocking feet. He joined Steve in the study, where Kate had already wheeled in their dinner. She served them a well-seasoned lamb stew, thick with potatoes and dumplings. She set the scone on a plate for Sam, but Steve kept eyeing it. Sam eventually split it with him.

He took pleasure in watching Steve eat.

Steve stared at Sam intermittently, toying with his spoon. “So. I was wondering… do you… I mean… I don’t know how to approach this…”

“Is something wrong? Is there something you need?”

“No! No. Not at all. You’ve been kind. So kind. Sam, I don’t need anything else, and Bucky was so pleasant to spend time with today. I just… do you need me to get out of your hair?”

Sam set down his spoon. Steve felt ridiculous, but he pressed on.

“Because, if you need to have houseguests, or, if you don’t want… someone like me under your roof when someone comes to visit, or if you have ladies over…” Steve became flustered. “I’m not saying that, you have ladies over, or that… I mean-”

“I have a large house,” Sam pointed out. “With plenty of room for several houseguests. And the arrival of anyone else through that door wouldn’t make a difference in how long I extend my welcome to you, Steven Rogers.” Sam broke off the corner of his scone and spread it with butter. “And Steve?”

“Yes?” Steve swallowed roughly around a hot lump.

“Your welcome under my roof will be… extensive. Quite.” Sam pretended he didn’t see the spark in Steve’s eyes, before Steve bowed his face to his teacup. “Try the marmalade. It’s delicious.”

*

Sam visited Natasha’s shop again, and she completed his sale, handing him the suit that she finished for him. “How is Steven faring with those britches?” she asked mischievously. Sam snickered.

“He’s faring just fine.”

“Britches?” Scott inquired, having walked in just as the conversation was getting interesting.

“Sam’s houseguest. We gave him those pants that Mr. Rumlow failed to pay us for.”

“Just as well. My heart wouldn’t pine for him if he never returned,” Scott agreed, shuddering. “Tell Mr. Rogers to wear those trousers in good health, Mr. Wilson.”

 

Sam returned to his own shop and remained busy with customers for the rest of the afternoon. As foot traffic gradually lulled, Sam began restocking his shelves and righted displays. A lilting, feminine voice interrupted him from polishing a display table with his rag.

“It’s too early to tell you ‘Merry Christmas,’” Wanda told him. “So I’ll just have to wish you a good afternoon.” She looked lovely in her black coat, with a straw bonnet tied under her chin by a red scarf. Her long, brown hair shone like mink. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her pale blue eyes sparkled. “How are you, Mr. Wilson?”

“Flattered that you stopped into my humble shop. It’s lovely to see you, Miss Maximoff.” Sam dutifully bent over her hand, kissing her knuckles. She didn’t release his hand.

“You’ve made yourself scarce. I haven’t seen you at the opera, lately.”

“An absence I intend to remedy, soon enough.”

“I look forward to it, Mr. Wilson.” She let go of his hand, glancing around his shop. “You’ve done such nice things with this space.”

“It’s my hope that everyone who enters my shop finds something to appeal to their tastes.”

Wanda smiled, dimpling her cheek. “I do, every time I walk in through that door.”

Sam’s stomach fluttered at the couched flirtation, and he cleared his throat. “Was there something I could help you with?”

“Father received your response in the post. You’re attending our ball?”

“Enthusiastically,” he assured her, even though the voices in the back of his mind chorused, _You can’t just leave Steve to twiddle his thumbs._ Sam squelched that guilt. It hadn’t come up in discussion yet. He dreaded the moment where it would.

“I hope we’ll have a decent turnout, and that the weather holds.” The snowfall hadn’t peaked yet, but Christmastime would only tell. By then, Steve’s leg would still have some mending to do. Wanda’s smile faltered slightly. “Sam?”

“Hm?”

“You seem… distracted.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, dear. I apologize, I’m keeping you from your work!”

“Miss Maximoff… thank you for gracing me with your presence.”

“The pleasure was mine. I must return home, before Father worries.”

“Then we mustn’t make him fret. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Good bye,” she told him, and she swept out, leaving him more confused than before.

The opportunity lingered within Sam’s reach, but he didn’t know whether to stretch out his hand.

*

Each evening, he returned to Steve. They suppered together and read and discussed books, played chess, and Steve helped Sam wind yarn into balls to be knit into blankets, a skill he learned at Darlene’s knee as a child. Sometimes, Sam turned on his phonograph, in lieu of going to the opera, and he would listen to it wistfully, a soft smile on his face.

“That’s beautiful,” Steve mused from the nailhead chair. 

“Isn’t it?” His smile widened. “It’s Beethoven.” The tinkling notes of the piano filled the study, carrying Sam to a peaceful place. “Mother loved it. Piano Symphony Number Nine.”

“I can see why she’d like this.” Steve closed his eyes and continued to listen, and Sam just watched Steve, the way his body relaxed, the rapture in his expression. “I envy you, Sam. You can listen to this any time you want.”

That gave Sam pause. “Now, so can you.”

Steve opened his eyes, and the longing in their depths made Sam ache.

“Not for much longer.”

“Steve-”

“My leg will mend. If… if you get me a crutch, I can get around. I wouldn’t have to linger.”

Sam’s face was troubled when he rose from his seat. He crossed the room and knelt by the arm of the chair. “Is it hard for you to be here, in my home? Is there somewhere else you’d -”

“NO!”

Steve’s voice was vehement, and he recoiled in embarrassment. Sam laid his hand on Steve’s forearm. It was better fleshed since he’d begun his stay under Sam’s roof, thanks to regular, nutritious meals. “I have nowhere else I would _rather_ be. But if there is somewhere else I should be, so I don’t impose undue burden on you, Sam, then… that can happen. If you want.”

Sam’s lips were tight, and his thumb stroked over his fair, smooth skin. “If I want.”

“Yes.”

“Then, no. Because that’s not what I want, Steve.” And the caress of his thumb was just a delicate brush, barely even stirring the hairs, but it made Steve tingle all over and set pleasant little shocks through his stomach. Sam’s closeness and warmth, the light contact and the scent of his skin and clothing - Sam’s breath was sweet, he’d chewed on a fennel seed after supper was over to freshen it - was heady and it excited Steve more than he wanted to admit it. “I know it might be presumptuous of me to ask, but would you be willing to stay with me until your leg fully mends? I will purchase a crutch if you like, so you can make your way about the house when you’re on this level. With or without me or Bucky here to help you. I want you to feel independent. I know that’s important to you.” Because Steve was still stubborn about accepting help when Sam helped him dress, although he grew increasingly _less_ resistant about the baths, especially once he managed to help Steve into a washtub that Simon brought upstairs, so he could have a more thorough soak. Sam merely propped his splinted leg up alongside the tub, and Steve relaxed in the lavender and rosemary-scented water, breathing in the steam, which was soothing to his lungs.

Sam thought of Steve, unprotected but stubborn, in his coat full of holes and useless shoes, out in the elements, and he recoiled. 

“Once I am back on my feet, I can make my own way.”

“I know you can.” And Sam’s smile was sweet, filled with encouragement. He patted Steve’s hand and rose. “I will speak to Dr. Erskine about a crutch in the morning.”

Steve’s gratitude was buried under layers of guilt. Being whole and able-bodied was something he was anxious for, but not at the expense of making Sam think he didn’t appreciate what he’d done, that he was eager to leave.

*

 

Sam woke to Steve’s low cries a little after midnight. He startled awake, unsure of what interrupted his sleep at first, and his room was completely dark, with the curtains drawn. 

But there it was, Steve’s voice. Panicked. 

Sam whipped off the covers and reached for his robe. He stumbled, cursing as he banked his toe against the corner of his trunk, but he made his way out of his suite and into the corridor.

He heard Steve’s cries, slightly muffled through the door. “No… please… don’t go. Don’t go, please… I couldn’t save you…”

In that instant, Sam knew he was crying out for his mother. His heart clenched. He tapped on the door. “Steve?” he said gently. “It’s Sam. Are you all right?”

But Steve was caught up in the throes of a nightmare that wracked that narrow frame, making him fight his way out of the covers. His face was anguished, and Sam’s heart went out to him. Sam went to the vanity and found the book of matches, pulling one out to light the taper he left for him. The tiny flame illuminated the chamber with soft, golden light, and Sam loomed over Steve, still speaking gently. “Steve. It’s a dream.” He knelt down and caught Steve’s flailing arm and made rasping, shushing sounds. “It’s all right. Steve? Can you hear me? It’s Sam.”

He jerked awake, eyes flitting to the hand wrapped around his wrist. Then they swung on Sam, bleary and glistening. “Sam?” he croaked. He licked dry lips. “What…?”

“Nightmare,” Sam told him. Steve’s pulse was rapid beneath his thumb, and Sam carefully lowered Steve’s arm back down to the covers. “It’s all right.”

“She’s gone,” Steve said, voice cracked, shaking his head. “Oh, Sam… I’m so sorry…”

“No, Steve, it’s all right!”

“I woke you with my… I’m so sorry.”

Steve was shaking his head. “I’ve given you nothing but trouble, and now I’ve stolen your sleep!”

“I was considering some warm milk, anyway,” Sam lied. But Steve was struggling to master his emotions, chest rising and falling unevenly. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “Talk to me. What made you cry out?”

“Losing her. Every time, it’s like I lose her, all over again,” Steve admitted, and his voice was resigned and wet. “She’s gone too soon. Far too soon.” He covered his eyes with his hand and leaned forward, elbows propping him up against his lap.

He jerked a bit in surprise at the feel of Sam’s fingers stroking his hair, but he leaned into it, letting his shoulders unknot, and he didn’t resist when Sam knelt by him and gathered him close. He absorbed the heat radiating from Sam’s body and let him support him against his bulk, comforting and steady, and those kind hands continued to stroke his hair, combing through it. It grounded him and fought back the threats hidden in the dark, tamed and silenced the monsters in his head screaming that he’d failed his mother. That he’d failed himself.

“It’s always too soon when our mothers leave this life, no matter when.” Sam felt Steve’s arms tighten around him, and he extended his caress to the long line of his spine. “Death isn’t kind.”

“If I could have done more… afforded better medicines, earned a better wage…”

“Wasn’t she ill, Steve?”

Steve nodded, because he was too overcome to speak again, yet.

“You’ll always wonder if you did enough. If you _could_ have done more. But you couldn’t stop her from taking sick, Steve. That wasn’t your fault.” Steve’s breathing was hitched, and Steve’s hands returned Sam’s caress, rubbing his broad back through his bedclothes. They lingered like that for a minute, just listening to each other breathe.

“She was so ill… she was in so much pain.” His words were halting and labored. 

“She isn’t, anymore, Steve.”

“I loved her so much.”

“She loved you, too.”

Steve’s hands tightened their grip on Sam. “I’m all right. You should get some rest, Sam. I’ll manage.”

“I’m awake,” Sam argued as he withdrew, and Steve regretted it as Sam took his warmth with him. “Want some milk?”

“No, thank you, Sam.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m not going to sleep, anyway.”

Steve looked guilty, and his hands twisted the sheets.

“Come.”

“Pardon?”

“Come with me?”

“Not to the kitchen?”

“No. Not the kitchen.” Sam peeled back the covers and then removed the topmost blanket. He wrapped Steve up in it and then scooped him up, carrying him bridal-style into the corridor and down the stairs before Steve could protest.

“Where are we going?”

“To clear our head for a bit.”

Sam brought them to the study, where the last of the fire was fading, and he set Steve on the chaise. “I’ll have you comfortable in a minute,” Sam promised. 

“Sam…”

“This should help.” Sam went and poked the dying embers, then stoked them up with another log. Once the blaze grew, Sam went to the phonograph and selected another record. He set it on the turntable and set down the needle, and the study filled with soft strains of music, another symphony. “My father used to bring me down here when I was little, whenever I would get nightmares. And we’d listen to his records and have warm milk. Father made me feel safe. He was strong and he knew how to chase away the monsters. He wouldn’t let anything bad touch me.”

Steve nodded. His expression was still lost, still broken, but Sam wouldn’t let that stand. “Sit up for a moment, Steve.” Steve looked confused for a moment, but Sam beckoned to him to scoot up from the fainting coach’s rolled back, and he huffed when Sam edged himself between it and Steve. Sam climbed so that his leg was stretched alongside Steve’s - he _enveloped_ him - and he tugged Steve back against his chest, then draped the blanket so it covered them both.

Steve was shocked, but he relaxed by small increments, gradually letting his body melt into Sam’s warmth. “Oh,” he breathed.

“Is this all right?”

Steve hummed in approval, and his temple leaned itself against Sam’s cheek. Sam’s arms wrapped around him protectively, hemming him in. Making him feel safe. 

“Just listen to it. This one’s nice, wait for the part with the flutes.” Sam’s voice was a comforting rasp, and his hand found its way back into Steve’s hair. “There’s just… something so sweet about it. Makes me feel like I’m running outside on a sunny day.”

Sam had just described how Steve felt, tucked against him so closely, listening to Sam’s heartbeat.

*

Steve woke up in his bed the next morning, generously bundled and tightly tucked. _Sam_ , his brain supplied as he yawned and greeted the morning. The late morning, he realized, as he looked at the clock. He heard Kate downstairs, hurrying to answer the door.

“Where’s the invalid?” Bucky called out. Steve made a face. As much as Steve appreciated Bucky, he could get his goat as well as the rest of them.

“Not quite awake yet,” Kate explained.

“I’m awake now,” Steve called back, earning himself Bucky’s laughter.

“I’m here to beat you at chess, lazy bones!” Bucky told him as he made his way upstairs.

“You haven’t so far,” Steve reminded him as he sat up in bed. Bucky grinned, already out of his coat. He wore an elegant velvet vest in a rich blue that brought out his eyes. The shirt sleeve was pinned up over his elbow and he was neatly shaven for a change. “You look nice.”

“I was trying for ‘dashing.’ Natasha assured me this was ‘dashing,’” Bucky told him on a huff as he preened. Steve laughed, waving him off. 

“I know little of these things.”

“We could bring you to Natasha’s shop. Spiff you up a bit. She was the one who provided you with pants. So you don’t scare off the help.”

“Trust me, they’ve been as grateful to Natasha for providing me with trousers as I have,” Steve agreed.

“She finished my suit for the ball.”

“Oh. You mentioned it before.” Steve settled back and picked at the covers. 

“Sam’s going, too. It’s at the Maximoffs’ estate.”

Steve smiled wryly. “My invitation got lost in the post.” Steve didn’t know that family, anyway, but it made him wistful just the same. “Think of me when you have your first waltz, Bucky.”

“Do you ever waltz?” Bucky prodded, lips curling.

“Never. You don’t want to see me try.”

“Ridiculous,” Bucky insisted. “I want nothing more than to see you try, once your leg has healed! That’s the first order of business once we get you out of that splint!” And that made Steve flush deep scarlet.

“I’d look foolish,” Steve told him. “I’m not graceful, not like Sam-” He bit back his words once he realized the one’s he’d allowed to escape from his mouth.

Bucky gave him a smug look. “Sam _is_ graceful, isn’t he?”

Steve made a rueful noise and promptly ducked under the covers, yanking them over his head to hide from Bucky’s accusing grin. Bucky grabbed a pillow and swatted Steve’s rump where it was huddled under the blankets. “Aha! You like him! You’re sweet on Samuel Wilson!”

“BUCKY!” Steve’s shouts were muffled by the bedclothes, but Bucky swatted him again, laughing.

“You can’t hide your feelings, Stevie!”

“I’m hiding from the raving loon in my room!” Steve’s blue eyes glared out at Bucky from the tunnel of blankets. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Steve groaned and flung the covers back over his face.

Bucky smugly pulled them down again, and he sighed down at him. “You won’t be the first person to tumble down that rabbit hole, my friend. He’s charming. And Sam’s easy to love.”

“This is ridiculous.” Steve unburied himself and threw up a hand, letting it drop in frustration. “I have nothing to offer him.”

“Your sincerity will go a long way with Sam,” Bucky pointed out.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Not if you make it so difficult.”

“He’s… perfect, Bucky.”

“No one’s perfect, Stevie. But Sam’s a good man.” He held out Steve’s robe, borrowed from Sam; it was Steve’s favorite garment. “Bundle up. Let’s go down for breakfast.”

*

 

Sam returned home to the sounds of raucous laughter and music in the study once he removed his coat. His expression was incredulous. Sam Guthrie was there, waiting on Rahne. “They’ve been at it for a while, sir,” he said, grinning.

“What are they doing?”

“You’ll have to see it for yourself,” he told him, and Sam followed the racket, leaning in the doorway and folding his arms as he took in the sight before him.

Bucky was dancing by himself around the study, waltzing an imaginary partner while Sam’s records played. It was a rollicking ditty, and Bucky knew the steps well. Strands of his hair flew loose from his ponytail, and his cheeks were rosy from activity. Steve was chortling from the nailhead chair, slapping the arm of it as Bucky continued his performance. 

“Sheer bedlam,” Sam accused, and both men met his incredulous look. “I leave my house for a few hours, and you’ve all gone mad.”

“Sam, come join us! You’re no doubt rusty, let me give you a turn around the floor!” Bucky challenged as he tugged Sam away from the doorway. Sam’s cheeks heated up, and his protests were halfhearted. Steve, for his part, wore an expectant grin, then clapped his hands. The words “let me give you a turn” triggered memories of more intimate activities between Bucky and Sam, but Sam held his tongue. Bucky’s eyes still held a suggestive hint in their depths, and his hand slipped down to Sam’s waist, tugging him close. Sam’s hand landed on Bucky’s shoulder, and he accepted Bucky hand, letting him lead, a claim he’d made before on a boast, but that he substantiated now. Sam and Bucky moved together fluidly, familiar with each other’s style and form, easily anticipating each other’s next steps and changes in direction. Rahne and Sam watched Bucky and Sam from the doorway as they fastened their coats, shaking their heads.

“And this happened without any wine,” Rahne mused.

“One doesn’t need wine when one has music as fine as this, Miss Sinclair, and when one has such a talented, pliant partner in their arms,” Bucky called out with dramatic flair. He pushed his cheek up against Sam’s, and their waltz became more exaggerated. Steve was laughing fit to split his sides. But Sam heard the connotation in Bucky’s tone, knowing it was another aside, a reference to their past indulgences. Sam had, once, been “pliant” in Bucky’s arms. He detached himself from Bucky without discretion, and Bucky merely grinned at him, scraping his hair back from his brow and looking pleased with himself.

“This one was looking down in the mouth,” Bucky said, nodding at Steve. “We fixed that.”

“I see that,” Sam murmured, smiling down at Steve, who was staring at him. Sam knew his clothing was in disarray, now, shirt hem coming untucked from under his vest and slacks, and he looked a little rumpled, chest heaving from being spun around. 

Steve looked rapt. Spellbound. Sam cleared his throat. He nodded to Rahne and Kate. “I don’t think there’s anything else that we will need.”

“Good evening, sir,” Kate told him as Rahne and Sam waved to him, hurrying out quickly. Sam felt that he’d been caught doing something that lacked… propriety. And restraint.

“I’m going to make myself scarce, Sam,” Bucky told them. He leaned down and tousled Steve’s hair fondly. “You’re going to partner with me next, Rogers.”

“When pigs fly,” Steve told him dryly. “Good night, Bucky.”

“Button up,” Sam told Bucky as he watched him shrug into his coat.

“Yes, Nanny,” Bucky teased, using Steve’s nickname for _him_. “I promise not to catch a chill.” Then he paused. “Walk me out.”

Sam’s brows drew together. “All right.”

Sam retrieved his coat and escorted Bucky out to his carriage. Bucky’s skin was still rosy from dancing and the heat of the study. “Step carefully with him, Sam.”

“Of course, but… what-”

“Just mind how you move forward with him. He’s fond of you, Sam. And, he may be afraid of disappointing you.”

Sam shook his head, and he felt a cold pit form in his stomach. “He never could.”

“Make that clear. Abundantly clear, Wilson.” Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “And make sure he stays warm. The cold air will make his leg ache. Always does that to my arm, on nights like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's tricky to pin down the era for this. It's Victorian. People weren't quite in motor cars yet, not everybody had indoor plumbing, but phonographs were a thing. I know this needs a beta, but I'm having fun.


	4. Loose Tongues, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s sojourn under Sam’s roof is questioned, and it comes to an abrupt end. Sam, understandably, is distraught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so, SO sorry for what comes next. I promise the next chapter will have lots of warm and fuzzy. Thank you for the kind comments so far, and the interest you have shown this story.

“I need rice,” Cook told Rahne as the maid began to scrawl out a shopping list on a scrap of paper. “And some more oranges would be nice.”

“For marmalade?” Rahne guessed.

“Of course, marmalade,” Cook chuckled, shaking her head. “That one seems to love it.” And she took it as a compliment that Steve appreciated her cooking just as much as Sam did, and that he was effusive with his praise. Cook, for her part, still thought Steve was too skinny, but that he looked miles better than he had the night Simon and Sam carried him inside, tattered and dripping with snow.

“I’m going upstairs to change his linens,” Kate told them as she left the kitchen.

“You gathered up Mr. Wilson’s as well?” Rahne pressed.

“Yes, I’ve gathered it up! Don’t dawdle at the market. I expect help with the washing,” Kate informed her. It was still a cold day, but the sun was shining and there was a substantial breeze, enough to guarantee that the sheets would dry when Kate and Rahne hung them on the line. During the winter, Sam’s staff focused on keeping the furniture and knick-knacks polished and gleaming, when it was too cold to air out the house. They also tended to more arduous chores, like cleaning out the fireplace and blacking the kitchen stove. Cook busied herself with making preserves out of the remaining fall fruit, or marmalade from the incoming crops of oranges, filling the kitchen with the delectable spices and fragrance of orange rind. She also baked extra bread, and she would send some home with Mr. Barnes, a professed bachelor. 

His more frequent visits had brightened things up in the house considerably; her employer was laughing more readily, and her guest enjoyed Mr. Barnes’ company, too, if his own frequent (sometimes raucous) laughter was anything to measure her assumption by. 

All three women resumed their respective chores. By the middle of the afternoon, Sam returned home for a light luncheon. Cook had already ladled soup from a large tureen, filling three bowls. “Would you care to eat in here, or in the dining room, sir?”

“The kitchen is nice and toasty,” Sam decided, giving her arm a pat. “Steve would appreciate the change of scenery. No sense holding him captive in the study.”

“He’s getting handy with that crutch,” she told him.

Which, of course sent Sam fretting into the study. Steve looked up and grimaced at him where he and Bucky were seated at his reading table. To Sam’s amusement, they appeared to be arm-wrestling. Steve’s face was beet red from the struggle, but Bucky didn’t appear to be exerting himself.

“You’re nearly finished,” Bucky told him, smirking.

“I won’t...admit… defeat,” Steve grated out, but Bucky huffed, and with his good arm, turned Steve’s over flat onto the table.

“You put me in my place.”

“Again.”

“If you insist.”

“After soup,” Sam interjected. Steve looked put out, and he swiped his hair out of his eyes where it had fallen from the scuffle. Sam bit his lip, knowing Steve wouldn’t cotton to Sam telling him that he looked _adorable_ , like an annoyed kitten.

(And Steve wouldn’t admit aloud that he liked Sam’s touch, a fleeting thing that made him tingle and glow.)

“You need to keep your strength up, anyway,” Bucky said, shrugging. But he reached up and rubbed his neck, rotating it a bit in both directions, and Sam saw Steve looking a little pleased, his expression broadcasting _See, I made you work._

“Sam,” Steve said, eyes brightening, “you next. Let’s go a round or two!”

Sam’s brows drew together, and he cocked his head. “I beg your pardon? Are you challenging me to grapple with you?”

“Are you accepting my challenge?” Steve’s chin jutted up in defiance. Sam felt a current of delight run through him at the way that Steve straightened up. Pride looked good on him.

“I would never turn it down.”

“Oh-ho!” Bucky moved aside, letting Sam have his seat. “School him in grappling, Mr. Rogers.”

Sam and Steve pulled a few rounds; Sam had eased his grip a bit on the first, until Steve gave him a pointed look, and Sam realized that his guest might resent him if he faltered for his benefit. By the time they were all mussed, out of breath, and trading taunts, their soup had grown lukewarm. Cook gave them an unamused look as she took it back to the pot to reheat it.

“You’re building up your strength,” Sam told Steve, sounding genuinely impressed.

“I’m feeling steadier. I won’t win a foot race yet, or dance around a maypole.”

“Stick around til spring, then, my friend,” Bucky told him. “You dancing around that maypole is a sight I would pay pounds to see with my own eyes.”

Steve took umbrage by snatching Bucky’s slice of crusty bread from his plate, earning a squawk of protest. “I might not be stronger than you. But I’m faster than you.”

Sam snickered. It just felt… nice. He felt surrounded by warmth and friendship, sitting between these two men, one whom he shelved his passion for but who remained his fondest friend, and the other, the friend whom he had begun to think of as more, in a shockingly short time.

And it frightened him.

*

 

Samuel arrived outside and stood outside, stamping his feet while he waited for Sam’s staff to greet him. Kate let him in, tsking at his state.

“Your lips are blue. Come inside and warm yourself by the fire.”

“The wind kicked up by the time I was halfway here.” He came into the study, and he found Steve there, reading a book on the chaise lounge, splinted leg propped up on cushions. “Sam’s at his shop?” he asked Steve.

“He went back after our luncheon. There may be some soup left.”

“Must be nice, all tucked up in here by the fire. You don’t want to go out into that mess. It’s going to be a cruel winter,” Samuel told him. He stood closer to the fireplace and warmed his hands, rubbing some feeling back into them. “I’ve been out in it all day.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully, setting his book aside. He didn’t want to tell him that he’d spent so many weeks out in the elements unsheltered, when Sam was just trying to make pleasant conversation. Rahne’s Sam was tall and gangly, with short, fair blond hair, lighter than Steve’s, an angular face and friendly blue eyes. He removed his hat and hung it from the corner post of a nearby chair to let it dry. 

“I work at the mill. But I have to unload carriages all day and carry planks. It’s not gentleman’s work, but I’m hardly a gentleman.”

“It keeps you in bread and milk,” Steve said.

“And in firewood. That’s a perk of the job. When Rahne marries me, I won’t allow her to get cold.” His face looked fond as he said the words. “I don’t deserve her.”

“She’s lovely,” Steve agreed. “And kind.”

“I don’t want her to have to work her fingers to the bone for the rest of her life. Not that she doesn’t get treated well here, and Mr. Wilson pays her a decent wage. I just want her to not have to worry about that when we have our own home, and a family.”

“My mother worked. After Father died.”

Sam looked chastened. “There’s no shame in that.”

“No. There isn’t.”

And the conversation felt uncomfortable to Steve, morose when he meant to be casual. “So. You have been considering a home for you and Rahne once you wed? Have you considered where?”

Sam brightened, and from then on, he talked Steve’s ears off with excited descriptions and gestures, and Steve listened at length, smiling and nodding, enjoying Sam’s enthusiasm. Rahne eventually made her way into the study and sighed.

“Of course you had to tramp in snow,” she accused.

“I wiped my feet!” he argued, but he took her hand and kissed her knuckles, avoiding anything more scandalous in front of present company.

“I can see your tracks, Sam Guthrie!”

Clint eventually arrived for Kate, and he was just as bedraggled as Sam, nose red and lips blue. “My blasted fingers feel like they want to fall off,” he growled as he came inside, kissing his wife on the cheek. “I expect your oolong tea with honey when we arrive home.”

“You’ve alway had high expectations,” she teased, raising her brows at Rahne, who nodded back and giggled.

“Well,” Clint said to those gathered, “we need to be off. It’s not getting any warmer out.” It had already grown dark; Bucky had left a bit early, pleading that he needed to purchase some firewood on his way back. 

“Will you be all right, Mr. Rogers?” Rahne inquired as she wound her muffler around her neck and as Sam helped her to shrug into her coat.

“I can manage,” he assured her, and she patted his shoulder. After they had done so much for him, Steve hated to make them linger with any further need he might have, or that they could come up with themselves to fulfill. He also didn’t want to say, “Sam’s almost home” and reveal that he was… eager for him to arrive. His face would give him away, with its tendency to light up whenever his host walked into the room, all grace and smiles.

 

*

Sam returned nearly a half an hour after his staff left, and Steve was a fidgety, anxious mess as he tried to entertain himself with a journal and a stub of pencil. He clapped the book shut when he heard Sam’s footsteps tramping up to the door, the sound of the key in the lock. 

“Steve?” Sam called out, and Steve flung aside the blanket over his lap, reaching for his crutch. He righted himself, testing out his balance, and he managed to half hobble, half hop toward the doorway of the study. “I’m home, now.”

“It’s about time, that wind sounds horrid, even from in here,” Steve agreed, and he saw Sam in the corridor, removing his coat and muffler. Sam looked up at him in surprise.

“You didn’t have to get up, Steve- _oh, dash it all! STEVE!_ ”

Steve managed to trip over the edge of one of Sam’s fine rugs, and he went sprawling forward-

-until he found himself caught against Sam’s chest, supported by those strong arms that had flown out and saved him from a hasty introduction to the floor. Sam had actually _rushed_ forward when Steve stumbled. Steve’s heart hammered at the contact, at the feel of Sam’s chest beneath the warm vest and shirt. 

“That,” Sam stammered, “that… would have been a nasty spill.”

“I hurried. I wasn’t… I hadn’t planned things out. I was just…” Steve let his words die off, because admitting that he was _so happy to see you, because I spent all afternoon waiting for you to cross that threshold_ would be… unseemly. Grasping.

“Would you like your supper in the kitchen, or in the study?”

 _With you. Doesn’t matter where. Just with you._ “The kitchen will be fine, if you please. Er… a thousand pardons, Sam. I can… manage.”

But it was so tempting to linger there, to bask in the way those deep brown eyes roved over him, to let himself breathe in his scent. 

And Sam was so reluctant to release him, craving the way he fit against him, how his arms felt gripped in his hands. Steve righted himself, re-balancing himself on the crutch. “I can manage,” he repeated, and Sam obediently backed off.

“I know you can.” His voice was kind, not patronizing. Admiring. “Watch the rugs. There are more ahead.”

Sam set about finding soup bowls. This time, they had a pot of chicken soup with thick dumplings, and Cook had put the kettle on. By the time it whistled, Sam had already fetched fine teacups in willow-patterned china with silver rims. They sipped tea with honey and cream, enjoying the lingering warmth of the stove, even as the wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes. 

“Was the shop busy?”

“Indeed. As soon as I would finish a sale, the bell over my door would ring again. They kept me hopping.”

“Don’t you have anyone to help you, Sam?” Steve chased after a lump of carrot with his spoon, eyes filled with concern.

“Once in a while, James comes. Rhodes,” he clarified. “I know many Jameses. He’s been my assistant for some time, but he is marrying and moving to his wife’s family’s estate. They have several properties that he will help them manage. He won’t be available to me for long.”

“Perhaps you’ll find someone else. Someone capable.” Steve’s eyes shifted back to his soup. _Perhaps someone like me_ , he didn’t suggest. The evening was chock full of the things Steve didn’t tell Sam.

“Perhaps. I have outstanding help at home. But it might be greedy to hope for as much luck in finding someone to help man the shop.”

The urge to suggest himself nagged at Steve again, but he held his tongue. 

“More tea?”

“Pleased, thank you.” Steve nudged his saucer forward, and Sam refilled it with the dark, fragrant tea.

“Did you read today?”

“A bit.” Then, he admitted, “I doodled for a while.”

Sam raised his brows, lips twitching. “Doodled?”

“Er… I drew. Sketched, really. Just some scribbles. Nothing remarkable.”

“Where?” Sam’s interest was piqued.

“Well, just in a little journal, Sam- wait!”

Sam was up from his seat, manners temporarily forgotten, and Steve stared after him in confusion and dismay. Sam worked all day, and all Steve had to show him of his day was a few miserable sketches? But Sam returned, grinning triumphantly and brandishing the small, leather-bound journal.

“Let’s see what you learned at university, for the time that you… oh.”

Sam had sat himself back in his chair and had begun flipping through the pages, and the first few were mundane subjects, drawn in a skilled hand. Sam recognized the view of the study, including the fireplace and mantel, the bookcases, and his escritoire, as well as the fainting chaise. He saw one of his vases rendered from close-up in stunning detail. Then the scene of Sam’s yard, and he easily recognized a large, gnarled oak tree through the windowpanes. Sam wanted to regret, for a moment, that Steve was hemmed in, only owning his limited, closed-in space when it came to subjects to capture with his pencil.

But then, he turned the page, and he found a drawing of Bucky, smiling up at him from the vellum. Sam grinned. “Will you look at that? I feel as though he’s about to talk to me, right from your book!”

“I’m not _that_ gifted, Sam.” Steve’s tone was teasing and light, but Sam noticed Steve leaning forward in his chair, watching him turn the pages. Eager in a way he would never tell him for his opinion.

“You captured the twinkle in his eye, and his cleft, that’s so much like him it’s-”

His voice failed him with the next flip of the page.

It was him. Steve drew _him_.

Sam’s fingers shook, hovering over the page. Somehow, Steve had drawn him from memory. He had to have, since Sam never posed for him - not that he was aware of - and Sam recognized the vest he had on, shirt sleeves rolled up as was his wont when he came home, to avoid a soup stain on his cuffs. 

That was his smile. The curve of his ear, and the lift of his brow. The crowns of his cheekbones, high and firm. The coarse, curling texture of his hair, somehow Steve had captured that, too, with his clever pencil. As though it had whispered to Steve, _This is how you seem him. This is who he is, to you._

“I think I failed to do you justice, Sam,” Steve murmured. “I don’t think I could _ever_ do you justice.”

The words left Steve’s mouth unfettered, telling. A blush bloomed over his skin, and he glanced away quickly.

The light touch on his hand caught his attention. He forced himself to meet Sam’s eyes. Those kind, intelligent eyes. Sam’s hand. Warm. Gentle. Lightly caressing Steve’s knuckles with his thumb.

“Don’t. It’s… no one’s ever done this. This is… high praise. I never knew… anyone saw me this way.”

 _How? Dashing? Glowing with good health and kindness? Breathtakingly handsome? Masculine and charming?_ Steve wanted to demand. “One sees so much when they look at you, Sam. I know what I see, when I look at you.”

“What do you see, Steve?”

Steve swallowed around a lump in his throat, and he turned his hand incrementally, letting his finger brush up against the edge of Sam’s palm. The sensation sparked something warm in his belly when he returned Sam’s touch.

“I see-”

His halting words died at the brisk knock at Sam’s front door. Sam and Steve jumped, reverie destroyed, and their hand flew apart. “Who on earth…?” Sam excused himself, propelling himself from the chair, but he glanced back at the table from the doorway, holding up his hand. “Stay put.”

“All right.” He couldn’t get very far, certainly.

“Just give me a moment,” Sam called out. “I hope it’s important, interrupting people while they’re enjoying supper,” he continued, loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear him. He opened the door to a familiar - but perhaps not entirely welcome - smile from a swarthy face covered in three days’ worth of stubble.

“Hope you have enough for three, then, Wilson,” Brock told him, brushing past Sam before he could extend him a proper welcome, or offer any himself. Sam bit back a protest at Brock’s lack of attention to his boots, dripping all over Sam’s immaculate floors as he came into the foyer. “I smell dumplings?”

“There should be a bit left,” Sam told him, squelching a sigh of aggravation. “What brings you so far, and so late?”

“I saw your Simon in town today. Haven’t seen much of you, lately. Not since your parents’ service.”

Brock and tact weren’t on the best of terms. Sam forced a smile onto his lips. “I’ve been managing well enough, under the circumstances.”

“Looks like it. No more black,” Brock said with approval, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Uncovered your mirrors, too, I see.”

“Your eyes do not lie.”

“Your maid missed a spot.” Brock rubbed at an imaginary speck, leaving a bigger smudge behind. “Now. You have soup?”

Sam mastered the urge to put him out. Brock Rumlow ran the gaming hell in town, one Sam occasionally visited for games of cards. But he stopped his sojourns there when rumors flew among the _tonne_ about Bucky and his lack of an arm. About his lack of a wife. How he wouldn’t make a suitable match. That was enough for Sam. He much preferred chess, anyway. And more pleasant company.

“Are you in the dining room? Where are your girls?”

“They went home for the night. It was prudent that they left early, in this gale.”

“Could’ve had them stay a bit. Especially the carrot-topped one. She’s pleasing, isn’t she?”

“She’s engaged.”

“Did her father approve?”

“Her father already cast her out.”

Brock made a dismissive noise. “Never mind, then. She’s damaged goods. Can’t excuse the lack of a dowry, no matter how pleasing her form.” He wandered to the kitchen, and he paused in the doorway when he saw Steve. Steve’s smile was polite, but it faltered when Brock spoke.

“Could do with a bit of meat on your bones, couldn’t you?” Brock teased.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Sir. Call me sir if you want, but Mr. Rumlow might be more fitting,” he said, eyeing Steve up and down. “What’s the matter? Can’t stand for a proper introduction?”

“This is Brock,” Sam corrected him. “And he shouldn’t stand. His leg is quite broken.”

It was only then that Brock noticed Steve’s splinted leg, propped on one of the kitchen chairs. There was only one empty chair left. Sam didn’t want to see it occupied. “No one to serve us, then, is there?” Brock mentioned as he seated himself. As though _serving_ himself was out of the question.

“I have two capable hands,” Sam told him. “As do you.” Sam went to the cupboard and fetched another bowl, which he set down empty in front of Brock. “Help yourself.”

Brock huffed. Steve mastered the urge to laugh. He and Sam caught each other’s eye behind Brock as he went grumbling to the stove, ladling dumplings from the pot.

Supper was an exercise in self-restraint from that point on. Brock filled their ears with gossip, and accounts of bad debts - the height of ill manners to discuss, but it didn’t stop him sharing them gleefully - indiscretions (a lady from town shared a tumble with one of his regulars behind the gambling den, and Brock felt little compunction in ruining her reputation even further for mentioning it), and poor card playing.

“Not everyone’s sharp at cards,” he said, shrugging. He swiped at his nose with one of Sam’s cloth napkins. “Soup’s rather hot. Cleans one out, doesn’t it?”

Sam recoiled, fuming. “Was there something you needed from me? Other than dumplings?”

“Oh. Right.” He reached into his pocket and handed Sam a neatly folded piece of paper. “One of my regulars asked me to drop this off with you. He wanted to order some of your fancy teas. He’s got money to spend, that one.” And Brock’s eyes gleamed with greed. “You should run around in those circles, my friend.”

“I like my circles a bit more tightly knit.” 

“Oh. Tight enough to let in this one, here?” he decided, giving Steve a pointed nod. “Where did you two meet, again?”

“In town,” Sam mentioned. “He’s my guest.”

“Your guest.” The word lingered over the table. “Really.”

“We’re thick as thieves,” Sam told him proudly, and Steve felt a rash of hot prickles at this praise. He smiled at Brock, too.

“Fair enough,” Brock said. “Well, then. Tell Cook it was a bit salty. But it warmed me up. I’ll catch you in town, Sam.”

Sam escorted him out, then found a towel to mop up the dirty puddles he’d tracked in down the corridor. “He doesn’t visit often,” he promised Steve when he returned.

“It’s your home. You can have whomever you want in for tea,” Steve reminded him.

“‘Whomever I like’ doesn’t include Rumlow,” Sam told him. 

“You have a kind heart.”

“My mother taught me manners. Sometimes with a paddle.”

Steve grinned at this. “She and my mother would have gotten along well, then.”

They finished supper with a simple pudding, Cook’s lemon cakes, which they washed down with more tea. They retired to the study and Sam turned on the phonograph, filling the room with more symphonies. Sam stoked the fire and helped prop Steve’s leg when he attempted to do it himself.

“Thank you, Nanny,” he joked. Sam reached out and tousled Steve’s hair, making him yelp.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Comfortable,” he confirmed. He was on the chaise again. “Er… you know, I get a slight draft at my back. Perhaps it’s sneaking in through the panes.”

Sam looked concerned, and he rose immediately to close the drapes, untying the silk cords and letting them fall together. “I’m so sorry. Does that help?”

“Very much. I was thinking how nice it was,” Steve mused, “when you sat with me, before. That took care of the draft.”

Sam’s eyes darkened with desire. Steve’s mouth went dry.

“Was it?” Sam licked his lips. “Comfortable?”

“Very much so, Sam.”

And Steve’s heart was pounding again, and Sam was walking toward him, and on cue, Steve sat up from the back of the fainting couch, scooching forward as much as his splint would allow. Sam managed to work his way behind, slinging one leg so that it was flush with Steve’s, and letting the other envelop him. Steve leaned back against him and nearly groaned at the sensations of warmth at his back. He pulled up the blanket invitingly and tucked himself and Sam under it.

And Sam’s breath was stirring his hair again, steaming his temple. “Will this do?” His arms looped themselves around Steve, resting in a fond embrace.

“It will do nicely, Sam.”

“Your comfort is foremost in my mind, Steve. Wouldn’t want you to catch a draft.”

Steve didn’t know when he drifted off again. He just remembered the feel of the pulse in Sam’s throat against his temple, how it felt to reach up and stroke Sam’s fingers, as Sam had his during supper. Steve couldn’t remember ever feeling so safe. So cared for.

*

 

He woke up again that morning in his own bed, practically smothered in blankets. Sam had also thoughtfully given him a hot brick for his bed. He really was concerned that Steve stay warm enough.

Bucky arrived early, shortly after Sam left for the morning. He’d lingered in Steve’s doorway for a moment. “Don’t overdo it with the grappling,” Sam teased. “Give that poor wretch a rest.”

“He may not let me. He’s quite stubborn.”

Sam’s smile filled all of the hollow spaces in Steve’s chest. “Rest. Eat. I will see you for supper. The Christmas rush is coming. It’s bound to be busy.”

“Of course.”

Sam paused a moment, staring at Steve as though something pleasant occurred to him. “Stay warm.”

“I promise I will.”

And Sam swept out. Bucky arrived shortly after, and they breakfasted downstairs, a simple meal of scrambled eggs and bread with jam. 

“So. What are you up for today?”

“I’m climbing the walls. I wish to go outside, Bucky.”

Bucky’s brows flew up, and his mouth flattened into a stubborn line. “Sam would have apoplexy if I let you out in the cold.”

“Only for a little while. Even if it’s just to see his yard. I just want to have a look around. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“It’s much lovelier during spring time, when you won’t freeze your hindquarters,” Bucky told him, the absolute soul of impertinence.

“No one’s ever accused you of being a gentleman, have they?”

“No one’s ever mistaken me for one,” Bucky deadpanned. “Pity, if they do.”

“Sam said he kept my coat,” Steve suggested. “That should suffice.”

“Steve. There’s no chance of me helping you out into the snow, not with your leg...oh, don’t you give me that look! That’s a child’s pout!”

“I’m not pouting,” Steve pouted. He huffed. “Bucky. Surely you don’t want me to die of boredom?”

“You can sketch. Read. Play chess with my brilliant, cunning self.”

“Done it. And, I’ve done it. And I believe that I’ve done it,” Steve told him, ticking each one off on his fingers.

“There has to be something else inside that we can-”

“Please, Bucky. All I need is my crutch. Simon’s already cleared the walkway.” Simon broke up the thick layer of ice and salted the walkway generously to prevent slips and falls, but Bucky was concerned that it might still be too slick, particularly with Steve in his splint.

“You still sound a bit congested.”

“I’m hale and hearty,” Steve claimed, even though there was a faint rattle in his chest, and he stifled a cough. “Some nice, crisp, fresh air might be bracing.”

Bucky’s sigh was ragged, accompanied by the scrub of his palm down his jaw. “You won’t let this go, will you?”

Then Steve’s face sagged. “Is it really too much trouble? I don’t wish to be a bother.”

“I see that gleam in your eye. You’re trying to make me feel guilty.”

“I never wanted to burden anyone…”

“Dash it all. Let’s get your coat, Steve.” Since Bucky didn’t like to feel exasperated alone, he ruffled Steve’s carefully combed hair on his way to the corridor to retrieve Steve’s old, shabby coat. Sam hadn’t replaced it, but he had Rahne clean it as well as she could manage, and Nat took it from Sam and patched the tears, repairing a hole in the pocket lining. That made it more serviceable, but hardly something to be seen wearing about town. Then Bucky reminded himself that the coat was one of Steve’s only possessions; he hadn’t much choice of what he “wore about town” in polite company.

And just because Bucky gave his “Nanny” designation proper consideration, he bundled Steve in warm layers of scarves, a second, heavier shirt and a vest made of fine wool, mittens, and one of Sam’s caps that came down over Steve’s ears. Steve was nearly sweating once Bucky wrestled him into the clothes, but when he opened the door, Steve felt grateful for them; it was cold enough to see his breath, even by mid-morning. 

“You’re certain about this?” Bucky pressed, his words coming out in misty little puffs. “We can turn back.”

“Not back to the study. Not back to bed. It’s a fine day for a stroll.” Steve began to make his way toward the short steps.

“Or a hobble,” Bucky corrected him. “You’re accepting my help. I want no arguments.”

“Bossy,” Steve muttered.

“Stubborn,” Bucky muttered back as he wrapped an arm around Steve to steady him, and they gradually made it down the stairs with more caution than grace. But the snow crunched beneath his foot and crutch, and it was actually easier than trying to navigate on the polished planks of Sam’s floors. 

“That way,” Bucky told him. “Sam lives on two acres. You’ll love his stables.”

“Stables?” Steve’s eyes lit up.

“Let’s find Simon,” Bucky offered. “He should be mucking out the stalls by now and feeding them. Sam has some beauties.”

That sped up Steve’s pace, even though Bucky warned him to calm his efforts; his breathing was slightly rough to Bucky’s ears, and his cheeks were flushed, but they managed to reach the stables, and Bucky automatically found him Simon’s stool in the corner of the stable entrance. Simon, large, burly and bundled to the teeth, waved a gloved hand from where he knelt, removing a stone from the horse’s hoof.

“Bessie picked up a pebble. It’s hurting her something fierce.”

“Bessie?” Steve looked delighted. The brown mare was beautiful, a rich shade of dark chestnut, with a white star on her forehead and white fetlocks. She gently whickered at Steve, ears swiveling as he and Bucky approached, but Steve’s touch was reverent as he stroked her nose. “Good morrow, lovely girl.” 

“This one’s persnickety,” Simon warned.

“Oh, she’s delightful,” Steve argued. 

“That’s Cronus, over there,” Simon told him, pointing to a larger gelding in the corner with a dappled coat. “He’s not as delightful.”

“Cronus?”

“Named for the father of the Greek gods,” Bucky told him. “Devoured his offspring so that they would not rise above him and steal his glory.”

“Speaks volumes of his personality. Don’t get too close to him.” Sam had a couple of ponies in the back of the stable, and they were more social. Steve fed them scraps of sliced, bruised apples that weren’t good enough for Cook to put into a pie. He asked Simon endless questions, and Bucky saw the coachman warming to Steve, enjoying his enthusiastic nature and intelligence. They wiled away about a half an hour, watching Simon curry the horse’s coats, but Bucky was worried that Steve would get too stiff sitting on the stool for too long, out in the cold.

“Let’s walk a bit,” he urged.

Steve looked relieved. “That might help. My hindquarters are getting a bit chapped.”

Simon choked back laughter. Bessie harumphed at him, flicking her tail and completely unimpressed.

So, they wandered around Sam’s yard, and Steve longed to draw the lines of apple trees, branches bare for now, but within a few weeks, there would be new, green buds and fluffy pink blossoms. Rippling green grass would replace the blanket of snow. There would be fresh lavender to place in the folds of the clean linens again. He pictured it easily enough…

He wouldn’t be there to see it.

It hit him like a cannon shot to the chest.

“Steve?” Bucky was staring at him, worried about the blank look on Steve’s face; he’d just stared off for a few moments. 

“Pardon?”

“We should go back inside.”

“Bucky! No! Not yet. Look!” He pointed toward the sound of low, gusty honks from a small flock of geese that had landed near Sam’s fence. They started waddling around the trees, looking for anything edible and pecking in the snow. “Geese!”

“You’re testing my patience.” But Bucky’s stern look dissolved when Steve gave him his most disarming smile. They eventually fetched a handful or two of Simon’s oats and scattered some on the snow. “They’re pests,” Bucky reminded Steve. “We don’t want them coming back for more.”

“They’ll behave,” Steve said, shrugging. His fingers were growing numb inside his mittens, and he didn’t complain about it, but Bucky caught him rotating his shoulder, sore from using the crutch.

“Back inside with you,” Bucky scolded.

“If you insist,” Steve grumbled.

“Well, I do. Cold seeps onto my bones.” And Steve felt a frisson of guilt when he saw Bucky rubbing his shoulder.

“You have my apologies. I didn’t think.”

“No. You have roses in your cheeks. Maybe you won’t mope around the house until Sam arrives.”

“I don’t mope!”

“Yes, mope,” Bucky pronounced. “You wear a long face until you hear Sam’s key in the door.”

Steve processed this. Was he that transparent?

“It’s all right to find him appealing,” Bucky said softly. 

“It’s...unseemly.”

“Ridiculous. How?” Bucky’s brows drew together as they began to walk back toward the house.

“It’s… he is a man of influence. And proper means.”

“He’s comfortable,” Bucky agreed. 

“And… I have nothing to offer him. And he needs to find himself a proper wife. He’s eligible and kind, and… he won’t be a bachelor for long.”

“Sam doesn’t consider his bachelorhood an affliction. Or at any rate, he doesn’t let himself suffer from it,” Bucky told him. “Sam is Sam. He’s lonely. But he’s not craving a leg shackle. He just wants… a companion. An equal. Someone who can appreciate that big heart of his.” Bucky sighed. “There’s so much room in it, Steve.”

And in that moment, Steve realized Bucky spoke from personal knowledge. He stared up at him, pausing in the snow. “You. And… Sam?”

“For a time. We were both lonely. Some needs were met. Some were not. But I would be much poorer without Sam Wilson in my life. Whether he is in my bedroom or not.”

Oh. _Oh._ Steve flushed bright scarlet and looked away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be indelicate.”

“No. You… you can speak freely, Bucky.”

“Steve? Never say that you have nothing to offer Sam.”

Steve swallowed. “Perhaps not _that_ freely.”

“He sees you. He truly sees you. And Sam only sees the best in people. Despite their imperfections.” Bucky’s eye flitted down to his left arm. 

Before he could retort, Steve heard a second masculine voice coming from the stables. They were several yards from it, but as they neared it, Steve recognized Brock’s voice. Bucky did, too, if his expression told Steve anything. 

“Blast,” Steve muttered.

“You’ve met Rumlow?” The corners of Bucky’s mouth tried, and failed, not to smirk.

“Dined with him. The conversation didn’t aid my digestion one bit.”

Bucky snickered. “Are you saying he’s distasteful?”

“Not at all.” Steve fought to catch his balance as Bucky gave him a good-natured shove in umbrage.

“You can, you know. He’s dreadful.”

Steve sighed in relief. “Goodness, thank you. He truly is.”

“I’ve had the misfortune of being accosted by him in that establishment of his. His staff mistreat perfectly good cognac. And the gaming tables are sticky.”

“You...frequent gaming hells?” Steve looked intrigued.

“That’s a tale for another day,” Bucky hedged, and he tried once again not to grin, but Steve leaned back on his crutch and poked Bucky with his free hand, making him jerk away. Clearly ticklish. That was valuable knowledge, Steve decided.

They were about to round the side of the stables, but Brock’s voice carried to them again, giving them pause.

“Sam’s acquired himself a little cuckoo, I noticed,” Rumlow jibed. “How did Sam end up letting that one under his roof?”

“That one? Which one? Cuckoo?” Simon sounded like he was still raking the stalls, and like Rumlow was wasting his time. His voice held an edge of annoyance.

“Cuckoo. They sneak into other birds’ nests. Roll out the eggs and make themselves at home. Then they lay their eggs there and let the other birds toil all day to feed the cuckoo chicks. Didn’t know that about cuckoos, did you, Williams?”

“I wouldn’t tell Mr. Wilson that you think someone’s been rolling eggs out of his nest. He wouldn’t take kindly to it. Nor would be care for what you’re implying.” He paused in raking, the pluff of the metal tines pulling through the musty hay falling silent. “Can’t say that I do, myself.”

“What? That houseguest of his, coddled in the kitchen last night? How did he come to stay here with Sam?”

“It wasn’t an ideal meeting, trust me. There was an accident. I didn’t stop soon enough when I was driving him out to the graves. Ran the poor wretch over and nearly ruined his leg.”

Steve felt a wave of nausea at Brock’ crack of laughter. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!” Yet he laughed as though it was the most _brilliant_ , lacking any trace of empathy. “It’s truly broken, then?”

“Rumlow,” Simon grumbled. “That’s enough. Truly. He’s Mr. Wilson’s guest. You will treat him as you would his family.”

“Yet he’s _not_. Sam’s sainted mother would faint dead away at the sight of that little urchin dirtying up her fine thin-”

“Rumlow. I need to finish. I still need to check the rig and run Mr. Wilson an errand.”

Brock huffed. “Fair enough. I’ve dallied enough here, myself. I need to get back to my hall and check the till. Got a lad who I suspect might be thieving. A visit from the constable will set him straight,” Brock boasted. “I’ll leave you to your mucking. At least it’s honest work that takes a real man to do it.” He paused. “Not some little, delicate cuckoo.”

Bucky, hearing everything, had paled, steeling himself as he turned to Steve, but when he opened his mouth to suggest they head the rest of the way inside to start some tea, Steve was already off like a shot, hobbling faster than Bucky had ever seen him. “Rogers,” he hissed, “come back here!”

Steve simply hobbled around to the front of the stable, and the two men inside heard the crunching of snow and twigs and saw Steve, bundled and red-nosed, eyes snapping, and Brock gave him a lazy smile.

“Look who decided to grace us with a visit. Got tired of being coddled inside, I wager?”

“Of course. Even cuckoos get tired of growing fat in the nest, watching the other birds toil.” He was fuming, his voice sharp, and Bucky edged closer, protectiveness rising up in his chest. Steve’s chest was out, his shoulders were back, and his chin had a mulish tilt. He looked like a stirred up hive of bees. “What are you doing out here, while Simon is toiling?” Simon’s dark eyes crinkled for a moment, and he coughed for a moment, turning back to his chore of filling feed bags with oats. 

Brock smirked. “Just leaving. I’ve an establishment to run. And I run it well. When a gentleman keeps his hands busy, he never asks for handouts.” His eyes flitted over Steve, the splinted leg, the narrow shoulders, his borrowed scarf and shabby coat. “Good morrow, little bird. Here’s hoping you can fly free.” He saluted Simon and left, and Steve felt Bucky’s quelling hand on his arm. Steve’s hand was balled up in a fist and his jaw was tight.

“His hands are busy. But he’s no gentleman,” Bucky murmured.

“That’s the Lord’s truth,” Simon agreed. Then he sobered as he took in Steve’s expression, the restrained anger and hurt. “You’ve been outside for a while, Rogers.” He stood and clapped stray bits of hay off his mittens. “I’m ready for tea and a decent sandwich. Let’s see what they’ve whipped up, then?”

Steve hobbled toward the house, at a pace fueled by justified ire and disgust.

Unfortunately, not all of it was directed toward Brock Rumlow.

*

 

Steve ate with diminished appetite, a detail that didn’t escape Cook. Rahne tried to appeal to his sweet tooth and offered him the plate of lovely shortbread biscuits, which with butter and delicately shaped. Steve eschewed them with a sad, distracted smile, which made Rahne’s brow furrow.

“One won’t ruin your supper. It’s a way’s off,” she told him.

“Or your figure. I can’t see through you anymore, but a little more fattening wouldn’t hurt,” Bucky added teasingly, and he wrapped his finger and thumb around Steve’s wrist to demonstrate his leanness, but before he could say anything else, Steve jerked himself from his grasp. His smile was halting and forced.

“Please. Don’t,” he said quietly. “Apologies, Miss Sinclair. I believe I can’t eat another bite. Cook, it was delicious.” Steve scooted his chair back from the table, and he reached for his crutch. Bucky automatically rose to help him from the kitchen, but Steve’s voice was stern. “Bucky. I can manage. Enjoy the rest of your meal. I’m going to lie down for a little while.”

“On the chaise?”

“No. My bed - “ Steve hesitated, clearing his throat. It wasn’t _his._ Was it. “I think I miss the smell of those fresh sheets. The lavender in them really is nice.” Kate beamed and gave his shoulder the briefest pat.

“Lavender makes everything better,” she assured him. “Call for us if you need anything. Don’t be shy, Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve,” he corrected her. “No need for fancy titles with me.”

That sent a frisson of worry down every back in the room. Bucky watched him leave, remaining standing until he saw Steve reach the end of the corridor.

“You should help him,” Kate hissed under her breath.

“That would hurt him even more,” he admitted. She frowned at this. “Rumlow overstayed his welcome.”

“Hmmmph… that won’t happen again,” Cook said as she removed another batch of shortbread from the pan and arranged them on a lovely willow plate. “That one has no grasp of manners at all!” It was the greatest slight she could give.

*

 

The walk outside had the fortunate side effect of tiring Steve enough that he fell asleep as soon as he burrowed under the blankets. His dreams were uneven and blurred. Fragmented. He saw his mother and father, during happier times. He dreamed of sitting beside his mother at missal, toying with the ribbon book marker in the holy book and playing with the edge of his mother’s lace-trimmed gloves. Her smile was soft and loving. Her skin smelled a bit like lemon grass oil, a component of her soap. He dreamt of riding beside his father atop their carriage, helping him guide the reins with the sun shining down on both their faces, waving away gnats and the occasional dragonfly. His subconscious was a network of winding, sun-dappled roads and fields of waving goldenrod and tall grass.

He dreamt of Sam. He heard the low, now familiar strains of a symphony surrounding him and felt his hand, curled in Sam’s warm grip. Steve’s dream self felt safe.

They stood together, watching the trees sway, blossoms pried loose by the breeze. Steve saw Sam’s easy smile, and he was talking to him. Steve heard himself tell him, _I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you._ Sam laughed and repeated himself, and Steve shrugged, at a loss, but enjoying his company just the same. Sam pointed up at the sky, and Steve turned in the direction, then felt himself recoil. The benign, bright white clouds rolled and shifted to an ominous, murky gray, and Steve felt the wind tugging at his clothing and ruffling his hair, whipping the overgrown locks into his eyes. He reached up to smooth it back and when he turned to Sam again, he was staggering back from him, confused and alarmed. Steve reached for him, but Sam was pushed back, unable to make his way back to him. Steve’s heart pounded, and the wind was howling in his ears, snatching away the music’s last, dying notes.

“Sam! SAM!” The rest of his words were stolen from him. His throat constricted as he watched Sam drift away. Everything around him was cold. Barren. The tree branches were black, stripped of their finery, and the wind continued to tear at them, rushing at Steve. It rustled his clothing with no regard for his tender flesh. He staggered and wove, making a futile attempt to find shelter, and he cried out, but Sam was gone. Sarah and Joseph were gone.

The blackened trees dispersed and reformed into a flock of noisy, screeching crows that took wing and rushed at Steve. Their eyes flashed and their beaks were sharp and brittle. They dove at him, pecking and raking him with their talons, and Steve cried out. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t carry him after a few strides, and the wind knocked him off balance.

And he was cold. So _cold_.

*

 

He awoke to Sam shaking him, his hand firmly gripping his shoulder. “Steve! You were crying out! Steve? It’s all right.” Steve was dazed, startled. His hand reached up and scrubbed at his face. 

“Sam?” Steve’s lips were dry and he sounded hoarse. “You’re home?”

“It’s late already. It’s time for supper, if you’re in the mood for that sort of thing.” And there was that smile, like welcome sunshine. Steve noticed that Sam lit the sconces in the room and a taper on the vanity. It was already dark when he looked through the windows, but Sam went to close the drapes to lock out the growing chill.

“If it’s no trouble,” Steve replied.

Sam’s smile faltered. “Why would it be a problem? You must be famished! Cook has a fine pudding waiting for us, it’s filled with raisins! She won’t let me taste it until we’ve had some roast, first.”

Roast. A rich, sumptuous dinner that Steve did nothing to earn. The dark, nagging voices inside him dimmed his happiness to see Sam home from the shop. “You can put that candle out, Sam. Or I will.”

“Of course. Let me help you downstairs-”

“Sam, please. Don’t take it upon yourself. You shouldn’t-” Steve’s voice failed him, wanting to crack, and his eyes…

Oh.

Sam interrupted Steve’s reach for his crutch. “Stop right there. This isn’t like you.”

Sadness cloaked Steve, but he tried to put a brave face on it.

“I just don’t want you to have to do for me. You’ve done so much, already.” His voice lacked its usual sass.

Sam didn’t know how much he craved it until it was missing.

“Would you mind explaining to me what this is about, Steve?” Sam’s tone was kind and patient, but Steve felt that hot lump rising in his chest again, and he shook his head. “No?”

“I can’t, Sam.”

“All right.” And Sam straightened up. He handed Steve the crutch, and he made his way to the door. “Make sure to put out the sconce when you come down. Your plate will be ready when you come down, Steve.”

Sam’s retreating back made the knot in Steve’s gut double. 

When he went to the kitchen, Sam was already seated, and Cook poured his tea, then filled a second cup for Steve. “Oh, there you are,” Cook gushed. “Looking all rumpled. Enjoyed that sleep, didn’t you? Were you warm enough?”

“I slept very cozy,” he told her, and Cook beamed.

“I saved some shortbread aside for you, if you change your mind, but tonight, there’s bread pudding with cream.” And it smelled heavenly in the large pan on top of the stove. Steve sat and waited for Cook to serve his plate. A broad slice of medium-well roast beef lay beside some baby red potatoes and boiled green beans with tiny pearl onions. It was one of the finest meals Steve had been served in his life. Sam watched him expectantly.

“Dig in, before it gets cold,” Sam prodded as he cut into his own thick slice. “Or it might sneak its way onto _my_ plate while your back is turned, Steve.” Steve took a careful bite and almost fainted dead away with pleasure; the meat was juicy and savory, rich with garlic and flecked with coarse black pepper. The meat was well marbled with rich fat, its edges crisp and crackled in contrast to the moist, tender center of the roast. Steve’s face reflected his bliss. “Good, isn’t it?”

Steve made a noise that was almost obscene, but he nodded emphatically. Cook chuckled, and Steve waited until he swallowed to give a proper reply. “My compliments. All of the compliments. You deserve them all.” Cook blushed.

“Save room for pudding.”

Sam rescued Steve from falling back into melancholy with tales from the shop. He described some of his more eccentric customers, doing impersonations of them and recounting to Steve what they purchased and the way they made him hop to find the items that they couldn’t remember the names of, but that they _insisted_ he carried in his shop. Steve listened to him, rapt and wistful. It was so easy to listen to Sam; he never tired of it.

Sam watched him as he stirred his tea. “What made you cry out? Something gave you a fright.”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself about, Sam. Please don’t worry about it.”

Sam’s spoon stopped it’s low clink along the interior of the fine cup. His eyes flitted down to his empty plate, and he sighed. “Just so you know,” he said, “there’s nothing that you can’t tell me. Should you wish to.” He stared pointedly at Steve. “All right?”

Steve stared down at his hands, then nodded. Sam mustered a little smile.

“Good.”

*

Sooner than he’d prepared for it, the Maximoff’s ball arrived. Sam’s shop was busier that day, and Rhodes arrived early to help him stem the tide of customers looking for last minute accessories and grooming items, hair ribbons and new fans and gloves. Some of them brought small gifts for the host (Magnus had a taste for fine tobacco, he was an incessant pipe smoker), and everyone inquired if Sam would attend. He assured them with a smile that he would appear and sign a dance card or two. 

Even though a part of him dreaded the thought. He’d grown so accustomed to quiet evenings with Steve. He relished their chats and chess games and watching Steve sketch. Sam longed for Steve’s legs to heal and for the weather to turn, so they could pursue opportunities to take walks on his property. Bucky mentioned Steve’s walk in the show, which initially made Sam sputter, but he also felt guilty for Steve’s boredom, and he heartily wished it had more outlets.

Steve’s leg complicated things, but he was getting stronger every day. Steve’s cough still concerned Sam, but he was getting rest and adequate nourishment; he considered inviting Abraham back to examine Steve again and to easy Sam’s worries about the rattle he still heard in his chest. 

Steve hadn’t asked Sam to “keep the draft away” by sharing the chaise with him again. Sam was tempted to offer him this service, but he didn’t want to seem forward, or put something on the table that wasn’t welcome. He wouldn’t admit (not out loud) that his arms missed the feel of Steve wrapped inside them, compact and pliant, settling into all of the nooks of Sam’s body.

Sam returned home, and Rahne and Kate already had his clothing laid out and prepared a bath. Sam checked in on Steve, who was drawing in the study. Sam hovered in the doorway, just watching him move the pencil over the page in his deft fingers, intentionally smudging in shadows and contours. But unlike other times when Sam found Steve sketching, when his body was relaxed and his face was settled in serene lines, this time Steve was pensive and sad, shoulders hunched. He looked uncomfortable and out of his element, a situation Sam meant to remedy, posthaste.

“What masterpieces have you created for the world today?” Sam’s voice was warm as he leaned against the doorframe. Steve startled at the sound of it and glanced up, looking guilty. 

“None that anyone will remember me for posthumously, I suppose.”

Sam’s brows drew together. “Are you all right?”

Steve huffed, smothering a low laugh. He nodded for Sam’s benefit. “I’m well, Sam. Just moody, perhaps.”

Sam joined him, leaning his hip on the edge of Steve’s chair’s armrest. “Is it because of the holiday? It’s difficult for me, too. With Mother and Father gone, it lacks lustre.”

Steve’s guilt pangs snarled at him more loudly, knotting his stomach. Of _course_ Christmastime would make Sam melancholy, and here was Steve, thinking only of his own problems. “You’re still allowed to enjoy its charms, Sam. You’ll cut a dash in that elegant suit when you step into that ballroom.” Steve smiled, picturing it; Sam Wilson would turn every female head in the room.

“I have Natasha for any semblance of style I project. She’s dressed me for several years.” Heat rose up into his cheeks; Sam left out the part that Natasha had _undressed_ him for nearly as long. 

“She sound kind. You seem fond of her,” Steve pointed out.

“Very fond.” Sam’s smile curled the corner of his mouth deeply enough for his dimple to make an appearance. 

Steve raised his brows. Sam cleared his throat. “Let me see what you’ve been working on.” Steve shyly handed him the sketch pad, and Sam made a pleased sound. “Geese. They look like they’ve eaten well.” They were carefully rendered, every feather looking plush enough to ruffle in the breeze, their gleaming black eyes seeming to bore into Sam’s. Then Sam recognized Bessie in the next picture, and there was another portrait, more loosely drawn, of Simon holding his rake. Sam laughed outright, doubling over and clapping Steve’s bony shoulder. Steve flushed but grinned back. “I don’t know if that’s how Simon wishes to be immortalized.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Will this upset him? Did I take liberties-”

“No, no. Don’t worry. And don’t apologize. I’m just so used to seeing him look this way, you’ve captured him so accurately.” Sam continued to flip through the pages, and he saw one of Brock, which surprised him. “Rumlow was here again?”

“He was out in the stables,” Steve clarified. His thumbnail dragged over a nubby loose thread on the armrest, making it seem more intriguing than it deserved. Steve didn’t want to talk about Brock. Not with Sam.

But the sketch spoke volumes. In Bucky’s earlier drawing, Steve drew him with those familiar crinkles around his eyes, the ones that made his smile more genuine, and radiant. They were one of Sam’s favorite features of his, and it pleased him to see Steve notice a detail like that, now that they were friends. Simon’s portrait also captured his easygoing nature and humor. But Brock…

There was a hardness around his eyes and mouth. Steve drew him with his mouth open, as though he was sharing blistering gossip or jeering inappropriately about subjects not meant for polite company. (Those were his favorite subjects.) Sam recognized the hard jut of his jaw and the deep-set, hollow dark eyes, the heavy, stern brows. Brock was handsome enough, with his sharp bone structure, swarthy skin and well-cut, thick black hair. Outer beauty could not mask ugly behavior, however. There was nothing approachable in his face, even in this simple sketch. No warm glow. 

Not, and Sam was battling with himself about this, the way that Steve had drawn _him._

Sam handed Steve back the sketch journal. “You’ve been hard at work.”

“Or something like it.”

Sam reached down and ruffled Steve’s hair. “You’re on the mend, Steve. Don’t rush things.” He righted himself and stretched, rubbing the nape of his neck, which was stiff from a day of being hunched over his money till and reaching up on shelves to retrieve items for his customers. “I have to bathe.”

“Goodness, yes, you do. I wasn’t going to mention it-” Steve fanned the air under his nose and made a face, and Sam gave him a shove.

“Start dinner without me. It’s going to take a while for me to get ready.”

“If you don’t mind,” Steve told him, “I’d rather wait for you to come down.”

Sam’s face softened. “You don’t have to.”

Steve looked bashful, and he closed the journal and set it on the ottoman before reaching for his crutch. “It’s not the same when you’re not across from me at the supper table.”

Sam squelched the little flip of pleasure in his belly. “You sure are buttering me up tonight.”

“I mistook you for one of Cook’s scones.”

Sam wrinkled his nose and shook his head, snickering. 

“You’re sweet,” Steve explained.

“I’d surmised that. I’m going to bathe, now.” Sam escaped to his room, jogging up the steps. Steve abandoned his sketching and headed for the warmth of the kitchen. Cook was just finishing up, drying the clean dishes with a towel. “Supper’s ready, Steve. Shall I serve you?”

“Not yet, thank you. I’m going to wait for Sam.”

“Oh, I expect he won’t eat much once he’s in his finery,” she explained. “Mr. Wilson is fastidious about his grooming. Doesn’t like a hair out of place or loose crumbs.”

“I’d take a belly full of your stew over a night in finery, any day,” Steve told her. She patted his shoulder.

“That’s the truth, isn’t it? I haven’t worked all of _this_ into a corset in years,” she said, indicating her ample middle. 

“Were you the belle of the ball, Cook?”

“I was the talk of the town, believe you me!”

They chatted easily for a while, and Cook convinced Steve to enjoy a glass of milk while he waited for Sam, maintaining her habit of feeding him up. They talked about her late husband, Ernest, and about Steve’s late mother. Steve told her about his time at university before it had been cut so short. Steve basked in the heat of the kitchen, comfortable but tense. Sam leaving him to go to the ball was expected, but he still felt bereft. He enjoyed Sam’s company immensely during their evenings, and he didn’t look forward to watching him walk out that door.

Just as Cook began to ladle stew into two bowls, Steve heard Sam’s footsteps down the corridor, louder and sharper than usual due to his dress shoes made from fine, black leather with hard heels. Sam loomed in the doorway, emerging from the dark corridor, and Steve’s breath caught.

“Oh, my, don’t you look dashing,” Cook exclaimed. “But let me fix your cravat.”

“Is it crooked?” Sam inquired. He smiled down at Steve helplessly. “She checks me over whenever I leave for one of these things.”

“You go to a lot of balls?”

“I used to.” His voice was wistful.

“Oh, he did, indeed,” Cook told Steve, seeming to talk to Sam’s cravat as she retied it for him, then fastened his cufflinks. Sam wore the black suit with tails, white tie and vest effortlessly; the fit was perfect and emphasized his broad shoulders and the tapered shape of his torso. His waist was narrow due to youth, and from spending much of his time on his feet in the shop and outside during warmer weather. This flew in the face of his generous appetite, and Cook fed him well. Cook smoothed a crease from his sleeve, straightening his cuff. “There you are. A vision,” she told him. Sam pretended to preen, his expression comical.

Steve felt desire flare inside him, like a swift punch to the gut. “You do look nice.” Sam had combed his hair with a bit of pomade that made it gleam. The startling white created a lovely contrast against his dark skin, making his smile even _more_ stunning. He had a silk handkerchief tucked into his pocket and spats over his shoes. He laid a pair of white gloves on chopping block and sat down to eat. Cook carefully tucked his napkin into his collar, draping it like a bib before he scooted the rest of the way in to the table. Sam stared at Steve. “What?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re staring.”

“Er… sorry.”

Sam’s face felt warm, and his skin tingled pleasantly with Steve’s regard. “No harm done. Eat.”

They made short work of the stew. Steve kept stealing looks at Sam, still awed at how handsome he looked. Cook snorted when she spoke of the ball’s likely menu. “Nothing but fancy finger foods at to-do’s like those. They’ll play you a song and then starve you to death!”

“If I eat another bite, my trousers will bust open wide. Cook, it was delicious. You outdid yourself.”

“This one. Thinks he’s _charming_ ,” Cook teased, hooking a thumb at Sam and shooting Steve a saucy wink.

“Then I guess I’m off.” Sam took up his gloves, and Steve rose stiffly from the table with help from his crutch. “What are you doing?”

“Just… seeing you off.”

“Well, then.” Sam ducked his head, then smiled at him. Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Are you imposing a curfew on me, Papa?”

“If you’re not home by the stroke of twelve, I’m calling the constable.” Steve walked (hobbled) Sam down the corridor to collect his coat. Sam donned it and buttoned it snugly around him, then added a fine black top hat with a white sash. 

“I wish Bucky were here to see you looking so grand.”

“He will be. He was invited. You’ve seen how well he can dance.”

Envy pricked at Steve, not for lack of an invitation, but for the chance to see Bucky in his finery. 

And it hit him, in that moment.

Bucky. Natasha. Sam. They were all of a kind. Part of the same social circle. They were acceptable. They had prospects and a decent station in life. Steve owned nothing but his name and a shabby coat. Sam had found him scrounging for bread with the stray cats and vermin, yet he took Steve in. Steve was in awe of Sam, but the cold, hard truth stared him in the face: He wasn’t good enough for Sam Wilson, and their burgeoning friendship was based on _pity_.

It hurt so much. 

Steven Rogers couldn’t accept a life as a “cuckoo.” That wasn’t the sort of man his mother raised him to be, and she would be so ashamed if she saw him like this, brought low, with no prospects and living off the backs of these good people. Those thoughts swam around him shallowly. He would be deep within their mire over the coming hours.

Yet he smiled for Sam, who stepped forward and enveloped Steve in a hug that made the breath rush from his chest. Oh, Sam felt so _nice_ , all solid and firm, with those large hands rubbing Steve’s back. Sam lingered a moment, as he was reluctant to release Steve.

“I’ll only be gone a few hours. These can be dreadfully boring,” he assured him.

“Don’t hurry home if you find yourself having a nice time, Sam. Not on my account.” Steve drew back and said “It’s Christmas! Go! Be merry! Be happy and fill all of those dance cards.”

Steve hoped his smile didn’t look tight, or forced. Sam was slow to release his shoulder. He gave it one last squeeze. Part of him longed to remove the oppressive clothing and snuggle in the study beside Steve, clad in his robe and nightclothes, sharing a blanket with him and watching him draw. “Behave yourself. Cook will be going home soon. Simon will return here, if you need anything.”

He stopped talking when he saw Steve tip his head up and squint at something overhead. “What?”

“What’s that?” Sam’s eyes followed the path of Steve’s finger.

“Lord help us… mistletoe.” Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Kate. She would think of something like that, as if I have anyone to even… kiss.”

Steve blushed. “It _is_ tradition.” And he looked away, staring at the floor while his cheeks burned. “But she’s not here to catch the two of us, so you don’t have to-  oh.”

“One always answers the dictates of mistletoe, Mr. Rogers.” And there was that satisfied smile curling his lips again, born of a found opportunity, widening at Steve’s look of surprise. Sam leaned in, and carefully swept his hat from his head. He stared at Steve’s face, eyes flitting down to his mouth, ripe, pink and inviting. And those eyes… their normally light blue had darkened with passion, and he didn’t shy from Sam’s touch when his fingertips grazed Steve’s jaw, tipping up his chin. “Happy Christmas.”

“It’s not quite Christmas yet,” Steve said, mouth dry. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his breathing quickened from the contact between them, just that tentative touch that asked, and didn’t demand.

“There’s still mistletoe.”  
“Yes. There is.”

“Then, Happy Christmas.” Sam closed the scant space between them and brushed Steve’s lips with his, just a soft, warm stroke of affection. Steve’s skin buzzed with a rush of excitement. _He’s kissing me. Oh, good heavens, Sam’s kissing me._ As Sam drew back, Steve reached furtively for him, gently gripping the lapel of his coat, and he leaned up to kiss Sam this time, pleading silently for permission. Their breath mingled, and the kiss was tender and unhurried.

Steve didn’t realize that the kiss had _continued_ , swelling and engulfing them both in passion until be broke away and found himself panting hard. Sam looked dazed, and his hand had eased its way into the back of Steve’s hair. He smoothed it before removing his hand and stepping back. “I’ll be home soon.”

“If not, then good morrow.”

Sam huffed. “What do you mean?”

“If… if you find company for the night.”

“Not at a Christmas ball, Steve. I intend to come home to you!” he teased. “Stay warm.”

“I will.”

“Don’t wait up.”

“All right.” Steve wouldn’t make any promises. Steve waved to Sam from the door as he left, then again from the window once the carriage pulled away. Cook appeared a few minutes later, bundled into her coat.

“Well, now. Is there anything else I can fix for you before I go? A hot toddy, or some tea?”

“You’ve done so much. Please, go home to your warm house.”

“You look flushed,” she teased. “Did I put too much pepper in the stew?”

If only she knew. “No. It was perfect.”

“Good night, then, dear.” Steve saw her out, and the large, empty house yawned around him. He lit a sconce in the corridor just to quell the gloom, and he went into the study to stoke up the fire. Steve took his time perusing the novels and texts, and he also admired all of the daguerrotypes framed and hanging on the walls. He recognized pictures of Sam as a boy, in short knickerbockers and a wool cap, grinning like an imp. The smile was unmistakable. Darlene and Paul Wilson were a dignified, handsome couple. His mother was surprisingly tall and stout. Paul appeared to be a few years older, with a thinning hairline and wire-rimmed reading spectacles. They wore elegant clothes, and Darlene’s hair was swept up in a shining pompadour. The pictures of Sam during his childhood were already turning sepia, but there was another larger portrait of him, seated, that hung over his desk. He looked somber and was wearing a fine linen suit. Steve wondered what robbed him of his smile that day. He noticed small, cameo-sized miniatures of Natasha and Bucky on his desk in tiny sterling frames.

Steve tried to read but couldn’t focus on the words. His sketch journal wasn’t calling to him, either, after an afternoon spent drawing, and, if he was honest, he would have preferred to draw Sam in his finery when he was actually with him, here in the study. He stared into the fireplace and watched the flames crackle and flicker. 

The niggling thoughts wouldn’t leave him. _Not good enough for him. Can’t pull my own weight._ Steve’s mood darkened, and outside, it began to snow again, small, benign-looking flakes that danced on the building breeze. _He pities you. He only took you in because he’s kind._

And the kiss under the mistletoe complicated things, because it shed light on the lie that Steve kept telling himself. He _couldn’t_ be feeling these things for Sam. These urges weren’t affection. They _couldn’t_ be. Steve could qualify it as gratitude. Deep respect, certainly.

Because if he admitted the truth… that the strange seed of regard that took root inside him and unfurled and twined its way through his heart, filling him up completely with an awareness of _nothing else in the world but Sam Wilson,_ then it would ruin him. Because it could never be. Simon’s feet stomping off snow on the front mat as he arrived stirred Steve from his reverie. “There you are! Sam said to give you these!” Simon entered the study and handed Steve a small packet wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Old Magnus won’t miss the napkin, he has plenty of ‘em,” he assured Steve as he unwrapped it and found tempting cookies whose centers were filled with currant jam. “Sam snuck a few for you. Wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out.”

“You let him commit mischief and filch treats on my behalf, Simon?” Steve bit into one of the rich biscuits and sighed at how good they were.

“Gladly,” Simon admitted as he swiped one of them for himself. “Have to share in the rewards of my crime.” He noticed the blazing fire. “Looks like you took care of that yourself.”

“I can manage.”

“Fair enough. I’m off to town for a while, then. Rumlow invited me for a round of cards. Not my favorite place, but it’s close to Magnus’ estate. I need to stick close to Mr. Wilson, or I would stay here.”He looked apologetic, but Steve waved him off.

“I can manage,” he repeated.

“You could use another blanket,” Simon told him. “All right, then. I’ll be off.”

“Good night, Simon.”

“Don’t wait up too late. Frankly, you might not have to, anyway. He wasn’t keen on staying too long once we arrived. Place was packed to the rafters. You should have seen the gowns. Every lady there, trying to outdo the others.”

None of them outshone Sam, Steve didn’t tell him.

He was alone again. The clock ticked hollowly from the wall. 

 

*

Bucky found Sam shortly after he arrived, and the two of them held court by the table of canapes and petit-fours. “Prettier than any lady here, Wilson.”

“You have a penchant for lies, Barnes.”

“Not when it comes to my Sammy looking pretty,” he argued, eyes raking over his attire. Bucky had already tasted the punch. More than once. “It was hard for Stevie to let you out the door looking so sharp, I wager.”

“Not so loud,” Sam murmured as he scanned the room. He recognized many of the people who were regulars at his shop, dressed in heavy gowns with layer after layer of ruffles. Some of the older matrons wore practical dark wools, but the eligible ladies competed for attention in velvets and satins, arms sheathed in long opera gloves and feet shod in kid slippers. Sam spied Wanda across the room, hanging on her brother’s arm, chatting with a colleague of their father’s. Wanda was stunning in the deep, shocking red gown, despite the convention that it was a harlot’s color. Her brother wore a sedate, silver-blue vest beneath his black tuxedo and the points of his collar were impeccably sharp. He looked like he had no trouble tying his cravat. Sam watched them for a while; the conversation must have wandered onto impertinent topics, because he saw Wanda’s eyes grow round before she swatted Pietro with her lace fan.

“Sign her dance card,” Bucky reminded him.

“Mustn’t seem too eager,” he told him through a careful smile, nodding at a passing matron in dove gray and a pearl choker as he waved.

Sam was miserable. He already missed Steve so much.


	5. Loose Tongues, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a choice to release Sam from what he believes is a self-imposed obligation to shelter him. Sam reacts strongly to this. 
> 
> Sam also realizes, with some prodding from his friends, that if he wants Steve to remain in his life, he will need to be more blunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had so much fun talking with you in the comments, about this story, You Keep Me Warm When Mondays and Tuesdays Grow Cold, and a little back, If It Walks Like a Duck. I love me some Stucky and Barbershop Quartet, but I have a soft spot for Sam/Steve. They just work so well together and give me feels. 
> 
> I’m going to keep up my awkward attempt at making this a Victorian AU. Hope you continue with this, I’m glad when people read my fannish garbage :) Also, special thanks to anyone who has visited me on Tumblr, too!

Sam danced six reels before he succumbed to the lure of the punch bowl. He tasted a hint of rum, and it warmed his belly and relaxed him slightly. Mingling presented a challenge; well-wishing, solicitous matrons asked him how he was coping with the loss of his parents, telling him their own accounts of how they knew them. How lovely and gracious Darlene was, how his father was a sharp businessman, and of course, an attentive father. Sam accepted the compliments, but his melancholy lingered at the edge of his consciousness, like a dog that keeps returning to your door because you fed it, once.

So, Sam continued to be charming and present a smiling, open face. He stepped out onto the chilly balcony, closing the doors after him, needing the brisk air to clear his head. A second cup of punch rested unfinished in his gloved hand.

The door opened behind him, and he sighed, unenthused for company, but he was relieved to see that it was Natasha.

“Avoiding potential suitors?” he teased. Natasha rolled her eyes and joined him by the rail, clad in her wrap. Her gown was soft, rippling green velvet with a scooped neckline, only truly appropriate for evening wear. Her hair was pulled up from her face in Grecian curls, with soft tendrils hanging around her face, and she wore her husband’s gift around her neck, a choker of perfectly cut emeralds. Natasha looped her hand through the crook of his arm.

“The moon’s out. You can see half the city from here, it’s so clear out.”

“It is nice, isn’t it? Why aren’t you letting anyone sign your dance card?”

“I’m about to throw it into the fireplace.”

Sam chuckled. “No prospects?”

“None whom I want to listen to for more than five minutes without stuffing lamb’s wool into my ears. They’re all so dreadfully boring, Sam.” Alexei dealt in textiles, which was how they met - they never had a formal introduction, which was a scandal in itself - and it was love at first sight. To his credit, Alexei hadn’t left his widow penniless, but Natasha was fickle. Balls such as this were an ordeal, and she had little trust for any man who sought to take advantage of her comfortable station just because she wasn’t a fresh debutante. 

“There are some fine chocolate truffles,” he mentioned. 

“I saw your coachmen sneaking off with sweets, earlier,” she said, and the mischievous look in her eyes told Sam that she heartily approved. “I won’t walk away from this ball with a suitor, but I may relieve our host of some of the petit fours.”

“Tuck a few into your reticule,” Sam suggested. He sighed. “You’ve never concerned yourself much with appearances.”

“Life is short. Our happiness is rare, and fleeting,” she said. She stroked his arm through the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “I know you contented yourself with what he had between us, for a time.”

Sam smiled and nodded, staring off into the dark. “I didn’t want you to settle for it, however. I can’t be a proper husband to you-”

“Because there are times when it isn’t a wife you want,” she finished for him. “I noticed a long time ago, how you used to look at Bucky, and that he used to stare at you the same way. I realize that we’re differently made, Sam. That we long for different things.”

“If we linger too long together out here, people might talk.”

“Let them. It will be more interesting than harvest season or Mr. Pierce’s grandson’s cricket game.”

“So, we’ll provide them with entertainment?”

“We’ve made an appearance. You’ve been missed.”

“Mourning makes one scarce.”

“James mentioned that you’ve been occupied at home.”

Sam patted her hand before gently removing it from his arm, but she slid it up to his shoulder instead. “Sam.”

“I’m helping him to get back on his feet. I’d like him to at least remain with me through Christmastide. It wouldn’t trouble me if he chooses to remain longer than that.”

“He has no family?” Her mouth made a moue of sympathy. “How dreadful for him.”

“His mother’s burial bankrupted him. He lost his family home. Work has proven scarce,” Sam told her. 

“It’s a mean season,” she agreed. “Is he recovering?”

“He’s grown stronger.” And he had. Erskine’s medications, warm lodgings and food improved him immeasurably, but Sam didn’t credit his own attentions and casual affection toward Steve with how quickly he was healing, or the new, radiant light in his eyes. 

“What is he like?”

“Outspoken,” Sam chuckled. “You would like him. He has fire.”

“Then I _would_ like him.”

“His smile is like sunshine. When he looks at me, it’s…” Sam’s words trailed off. How could he even begin to describe it?

Natasha knew, then, that her choice to end things with Sam had been the correct one, even if she arrived at it with great difficulty. The way Sam’s eyes drifted far away, the soft look of awe on his face, how lost his voice sounded when he mentioned his houseguest, told Natasha _volumes_. Sam had never looked at her like that. Flirtatiously, she could confirm. Affectionately. But not like a man who has lost all sense on another person’s behalf, whose emotions dragged themselves up from his heart and shone from his eyes. 

“I envy you, you know.” Sam glanced at her and returned her smile.

“Why?”

“You won’t wish you had someone to rub your feet for you when you return home. These shoes are a punishment.” Sam chuckled, then kissed her temple. He was growing chilled, and he handed her the punch so she could benefit from its warming qualities. Natasha sipped it dutifully, another thing that amused Sam; when they were alone, he’d seen her down vodka in a less ladylike fashion. 

Just as they returned to the ballroom, Bucky accosted them at the door. He grinned at Natasha, then bowed over her hand, kissing her knuckles. His lips lingered a moment too long, and his eyes were bright when he glanced up at her. Her expression was amused and tolerant. “Natasha. You’re breaking dozens of hearts and abusing male egos tonight.”

“Including yours?”

“No. My heart’s not broken, and my ego’s intact. I’ve come to sign your dance card.”

“Oh. That should occupy me for a few minutes, at least.” She quirked her brow at Sam, who shrugged. 

“You’ll keep this one from making all the ladies in the room blush from his impertinence,” Sam reasoned.

Bucky straightened, but he hadn’t released Nat’s hand. “There’s still the matter of your dance card,” Bucky reminded her. Nat sighed and removed it from her reticule, along with a tiny stub of pencil. Bucky took it solemnly and moved off to the refreshment table, using its edge as a surface. 

“You’re in for a treat. He dances an elegant reel.”

“I don’t doubt that, but what makes you such a confident judge of his talents?”

“We’ve practiced in my study. Steve judged us confidently, too, but his opinion shows bias.”

“You danced?” Natasha smirked. “I would have paid generously to see that.” She glanced back at Bucky. “What’s taking him so blasted long?”

“Oh, my.” Sam stopped himself from cackling, but barely. Bucky returned to Natasha’s side and handed her the dance card. His name was scrawled on _every_ line, even on the back.

“How presumptuous,” she told him.

“Eager, perhaps,” he said. “But, in the meantime, milady, you owe me a reel or two.”

 

Sam approached Wanda along the perimeter of the ballroom floor, once she was alone. Her mother, Magda, lingered nearby, not quite chaperoning her, but pleading introductions to every male who approached to make her own assessment of their character. “Good evening, Miss Maximoff. You look enchanting.”

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Wilson.” Sam took her hand in both of his and kissed it properly, and her soft, blue-gray eyes smiled along with her lips. She had a tiny dimple in her cheek and perfect, white teeth. The red gown set her aflame, bringing out rosy tones in her smooth skin and forming a dramatic backdrop for her sable brown hair, styled similarly to Natasha’s and adorned with pearl combs. She wore a matching choker around her slender throat. 

“It’s a lovely ball.”

“Father will be glad to hear it,” she told him. “He’s been fretting about it all month.” And Sam could see why, since he’d spared no expense. Alcohol flowed generously, and the string orchestra likely cost a fortune to hire for the night. 

“Tell him to fret no more. This is a wild success.”

“He may feel it’s been more successful if I walk away with a few prospects,” Wanda admitted, and she gave Sam a pointed look. “I was thinking of having some punch.”

“Hold onto that thought, Miss Maximoff. A moment.”

“You’re the soul of kindness.”

Sam felt her eyes on him as he left her side, but something rankled. The effort felt misspent. He had no expectations from this night except a headache the next morning from the rum and sore feet from waltzes and reels. He dipped the ladle and poured Wanda’s cup, and he made his excuses to Miss Munroe, a lovely lady enjoying her second formal Season who he met at a prior ball. Her father David was a newspaper publisher who was rumored to have married a princess from the African continent, and Sam would have considered courting her, but her interests had already been swayed by James Howlett, a middle-aged farmer who, like Natasha, was recently widowed. Sam returned to Wanda with the punch, and they chatted easily for a while, Magda frequently glancing their way.

He entertained himself, watching Nat and Bucky expertly dancing the reels, one by one, honoring Nat’s full dance card and avoiding unwanted small talk with the rest of the room. Perhaps it was the height of ill manners, but it was the dawn of a new, close bond. James quickly became the envy of every man in the room. All except Sam. 

He was happy for them both.

*

It had been some time since Simon had left, and Steve was anxious and edgy. He periodically got up to stare out the windows, then would hastily replace the drapes, knowing it was impractical to let in that draft. He stoked the fire again, not wanting Sam to return home to a chilly house. 

Yet, it felt wrong.

Sam’s house felt wrong when he wasn’t there. Steve felt like an interloper. 

And the clock continued to tick, accusing him of taking advantage of Sam. Demanding to know _Why are you still here? What do you have to offer him?_ Steve returned to his room. He went upstairs and found his old bundle of belongings. The books were still there, their pages creased and slightly mildewy from his time outdoors, unsheltered. They had been his mother’s favorites. He still had her locket holding miniatures of her and his father, as well as a lock of her blonde hair. He hundled it back up into its handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket. All of the voices in his head warred with his memory of Brock and Simon talking in the stable. 

“Cuckoo,” he said aloud to the carefully furnished guest suite. “Invading his nest.”

It was untenable. Not feasible. Not when he had so little, and he couldn’t contribute to his keep.

Steve sat on the bed and re-wrapped his belongings, knotting the ends of the blanket, new determination filling his chest. He stooped down slightly at the top of the staircase and threw his bundle down the flight, letting it land with a thump before he navigated his way down with his crutch. His leg was no longer painful, but he wasn’t sure how well he would be able to walk without it, and he felt guilty about keeping it, when it could have been costly. 

Steve looked around the house whose walls had welcomed him and sheltered him. The pictures and rugs, vases and paintings were now familiar and dear; they reflected the spirit of the owner, his calm aura and effortless kindness. Sam deserved more than Steve could ever offer. He went into the study and tamped down the fire, deciding not to leave it unattended. Steve scrawled a small note and left it on the escritoire. He extinguished the sconces and retrieved his coat. He considered the mittens, cap and scarf that Bucky provided him with, and decided  that these, too, he would keep. If his circumstances changed, he would come back and pay Sam back in full.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Steve told the front foyer. He steeled himself as he looked out through the side light windows in the doorway. The snow was still falling, and he would need to make haste. 

He let himself out, not looking back.

*

One should meet the one who sets their heart aflame in a ballroom, Sam thinks. Or a drawing room. At Sunday missal. Or perhaps at a garden luncheon while eating finger sandwiches and playing croquet.

One simply doesn’t run over them with their bloody _carriage_.

Sam wondered how he found himself here. In a ballroom, surrounded by eligible ladies and polite, affluent company, able to think of nothing but the intelligent, sweet man who’d stolen his heart, tucked warmly in his study. He engaged Natasha briefly in a dance, despite the lack of space on her dance card. Wanda realized slowly that her efforts with Sam wouldn’t yield success and had moved off, making her smiling apologies. He excused himself again from Pietro, who had wandered up to compliment him on his suit; he passed on Natasha’s name, knowing a gentleman always coveted a talented tailor; Scott was just as talented as his employer, and his clothing always had an impeccable cut.

He found himself out on the balcony again. The stars winked down at him, and he gazed out again across the rooftops and lightly swaying trees. He saw Simon downstairs by the coach, enjoying a pipe, and he caught his eye, waving to him.

“How can I help you, sir? Still planning to stay?”

“I believe I’m ready to retire, Williams. I’ll meet you once I’ve said my goodbyes.”

As if on cue, Bucky appeared in the doorway. His cheeks were rosy from laughter and from dancing all night. “Sam? You’re leaving?”

“I feel it might be for the best.”

Bucky closed the door and joined him by the rail, and like Natasha, he wasn’t shy with affection, nor beholden to social expectations. He slung his arm around Sam’s shoulders and watched Simon tap out the rest of the tobacco from his pipe, letting it drop onto the fresh snow. “Are you going to tell him, Sam?”

“What should I tell him?”

“That you’re besotted with him.” Bucky gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t hesitate. He needs to hear that from you, Sam. I’ve watched you two, and he has made no secret of how he feels about you. But… he might not have told you that he had a bit of a run-in with Rumlow.”

Sam frowned. “He mentioned that he stopped by again.”

“Did he tell you what he said to him?”

“What? Brock said something to him?” Sam heard the hint of ire that crept into his own voice. Bucky released him and sighed. 

“I should have given him a sound thrashing, but Steve acted like he wished to handle things himself. He was blunt.” Bucky smiled. “I admire that about him. I worry about him when he eventually gets out of that splint.”

“But what did Brock say?”

“He called him something rather unbecoming. A cuckoo. He suggested that Steve was taking advantage of your generosity. He spoke ill of Steve’s character.”

Sam’s stomach dropped into his shoes. His heart pounded and he saw everything through a red haze. “He said… what.”

“A cuckoo. He was rather unpleasant.”

“Simon was there?”

“Yes, he was. He wasn’t amused, either.”

“Blast.” Sam hurried to the door, but Bucky caught him, stopping him. When Sam whirled on him, Bucky’s lips were tight.

“He might not have wanted to tell you, out of pride.”

“I needed to know this yesterday. I could have set him straight, and set this right,” Sam accused. “That’s why he…” Sam scrubbed his palm over his jaw. “Blast it all. Damn it, damn it!”

Bucky blinked. Sam never cursed.

“I have to go. Make my apologies.”

“Of course.”

“Bucky. Thank you.” Sam watched Bucky, standing in the moonlight in his finery, hair clubbed back neatly and tied with a black ribbon. His eyes gleamed like blue diamonds but were filled with sadness. 

“You care about him. You must let him know, Sam.”

Sam nodded, and he rushed back and embraced Bucky tightly, making the breath rush out of him. Bucky made a choked sound and Sam felt his palm stroke his back with remembered affection. “You’re a good man, Sam.”

“So are you. Now, go. Do inappropriate things with Natasha.”

“Gladly.”

*

Simon pulled up the front driveway of the house, and he let Sam out quickly. Sam had blistered his ears downstairs as Simon helped him into the carriage, demanding to know why hadn’t told him about Rumlow’s horrible behavior. Simon had been contrite, guilt etched across his features, and Sam was stricken that he had been uninformed. He needed to speak to Steve, from his heart, and make his intentions - and affections - clear.

The kiss came from a place of mutual need, leaving Sam burning for more, but when they separated, he saw a hint of sadness in Steve’s eyes, sensed a bleakness that he wanted to dispel. Now he knew its cause, and that sped his feet up the walkway. Through the windows, his house was surprisingly dark. Sam was surprised to find the door unlocked, and alarm filled him. “Simon, why is the door unlocked?”

“I locked up when I left,” Simon said, concerned.

“That’s not right.” Sam stamped off his feet and removed his top hat, setting it on the side table in the hall. The corridor was dark, lit only by the streetlights. The house was chilled. “Steve?” Sam called out. “I’m home.” The lack of a reply made Sam’s heart pound. His thoughts spun as he rushed into the study. “Steve?” The last cinders glowed in the fireplace, and he wasn’t in his favorite nailhead chair. Behind him, Simon lit one of the hall sconces, giving Sam enough light to find his way to his desk. He found the box of matches and lit the small oil lamp there, and in its cheery, golden glow, he spied the note, folded in half.

“Oh, no,” he breathed. “Steve, damn it… you stubborn fool.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He left this.” Sam brandished it, and he slumped as though someone had punched him. He opened the scrap of paper with shaking fingers and read it aloud.

“Sam, I am so sorry, but I feel it is time to take my leave. I want to thank you for your immense kindness and generosity. I know how we met was not ideal.” Sam huffed at his, shaking his head, and he felt his eyes burn, throat wanting to close up around the words. He couldn’t accept this, refused to let it sink in. “But I will not continue to impose and become a greater burden than I have been. You have shown me friendship like none that I have ever known. I will cherish it, and one day, I hope to repay you in full. Please, do not worry for me.

I can get by on my own.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Simon grated out. “What on earth possessed him to leave like that?”

“He… he didn’t wish to burden me,” Sam choked. “Simon, we need to find him.”

“We have no way of knowing where he-”

“Now, Simon!” They extinguished the sconces and lamp, and Sam put on his warm cap, this time, and noticed that Steve’s scarf and cap were missing. Fear filled his chest.

*

They rode through town, asking Sam’s neighbors if they saw a young, compact blond using a crutch, but no one could recall anyone who fit that description. He wandered about the streets once Simon pulled the carriage to a stop, and he even stopped outside the bakery where he had met Steve. It was closed for the night, and he didn’t see anyone in the back alley except for rodents and the hungry feral cats. Sam asked random strangers and a patrolling constable, but to no avail. They rode around town for about another hour, before Sam had Simon turn them down the country road. They asked at a few farms. One of the farmers admitted that once in a while, vagrants would sleep in his barn in the hayloft, and he would chase them off, but he couldn’t remember seeing Steve. Despair rested around Sam’s shoulders like a cloak.

He spent the hours that he would have wiled away beside a refreshment table in his carriage and knocking on doors, but Steve was well and truly missing. The night was cold and unforgiving, snow piling up in a thick blanket, covering the gravel road and cobbles. All of the walkways would be slick, Sam realized with horror. Steve was still in a splint, hobbling on a crutch.

This didn’t bode well.

*

Steve went to the last place Sam would have thought to look: The cemetery, Sam’s destination the night that they met.

He couldn’t say what drove him there. The ground wasn’t forgiving, but he made his way through the snow, leaving uneven footprints behind him with the aid of the crutch. He perused the neat rows of headstones and statuary. He saw beautiful stone angels and cherubs, nameplates inscribed with dates, urging lost loved ones to rest in peace. Steve walked, huddled deeply in his coat. The chill was seeping into his bones, and his nose began to run, but there something he needed to see, a visit he needed to make. For closure, perhaps. Peace of mind.

He found them. Matched graves with beautifully engraved marble stones, costly and precious. Steve brushed away the snow that had accumulated there with a mittened hand. _Darlene Wilson. Paul Wilson._ “You have a lovely son. You raised him to be a wonderful man, did you know that?” Steve felt his eyes prick. “Of course you did. How you must love him. It’s so easy to love Sam.”

He wondered if they heard him. “He has such a big heart. He offered his friendship to me, even though I’m not worthy of it.”

Steve’s tears froze on his cheeks as he mourned Sam’s loss and his own, as fresh as it was the day that he buried his mother. He mourned what could have been between him and Sam if he could only be the man Sam deserved. A man with a station and a name, family connections and a steady income. 

The snow continued to fall.

*

Sam woke up to Rahne and Kate’s sharp knocks the next morning. He felt groggy and his head pounded, and at first he wondered how he got into his bed. He was heavily bundled beneath the blankets, but he had gone to sleep in his dress shirt and trousers. Then his eyes snapped awake with the realization that he hadn’t found Steve the night before. Simon and Sam were out for most of the night. He came home shortly before dawn, despairing and exhausted. He made his way downstairs, and he let Rahne and Kate inside. They looked concerned at his appearance.

“Did you enjoy the ball?” Rahne asked hopefully.

“Not as much as I would have liked.”

“Perhaps you should lie in a bit longer,” Rahne suggested. “Is Steven up?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted hoarsely. His face was a sad rictus. “He’s gone.”

“What?” Kate looked floored. Rahne clapped her hands over her mouth. 

“Oh, no,” she said in dismay. “Sam, what happened?”

“He gathered the impression that he was a burden to us,” Sam said.

“But, he wasn’t!” Kate insisted hotly. “He was lovely! He was a joy to serve, just like you, Mr. Wilson. And he was so ill.”

“Fragile,” Rahne agreed. 

“Only on the outside,” Sam corrected them. “I couldn’t find him.”

“You look wretched,” Kate informed him. “I’m going to make some good, strong coffee.” Sam was grateful; his head was pounding and he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Rahne reminded them. “He should be with people who care about him.” And Sam realized that she was crying. Rahne’s voice shook. “It’s a horrible thing to be alone in this world, with no one to love or care about you. And so much worse at Christmas. Strangers aren’t always kind. Not everyone can manage without any protection, and I’m afraid for him, Mr. Wilson. I truly am.” She dashed tears from her eyes, and Kate embraced her, murmuring soothing words. Sam felt so hollow, and his fear rebuilt itself anew.

“Could you hurry with the coffee?”

“Of course,” Kate told him. “Cook should be here shortly for breakfast.”

“Don’t worry about breakfast.” Sam went upstairs to change clothes, calling over his shoulder from the staircase, “Not until Steve is here to eat it with us.”

*

Simon drove Sam into town and he closed his shop for the day, leaving a sign in the window. He wasn’t worried about the lost income, and he hated to disappoint last minute shoppers, but he needed to find Steve, with the benefit of daylight. He continued his questions, asking shop owners at the bustling marketplace if they had seen Steve on his crutch. Still no success. He revisited the bakery, and the baker looked surprised to see him there again.

“I’ve fresh loaves today. Some with raisins. They’re a special today.”

“I’m not here to sample your wares. I want to know if you have seen Steven Rogers. The young man that you chased into the street.”

The man scratched his nose unbecomingly, making Sam recoil. “Can’t say as I have, sir. Surprised he ain’t been scavenging in my alley.”

“You should be ashamed that you let him, without showing him any compassion. Yet you would balk at sharing some day-old bread.” The young girl behind his counter watched Sam with recognition.

“How is he?” she inquired. “His name is Steven?”

“Yes. He was staying with me, until last night.”

“He has not been here, yet.”

“Get back into the kitchen,” the baker hissed, waving her off, but she stood her ground, arms folded beneath her breasts.

“He’s worried about him. You have no heart. You work at the store on Main?” she asked Sam.

“I own it, yes.”

“Then, I will seek you out, later. We will look for Steven.”

Sam gave her a smile of gratitude.

“So, no bread, then?” the baker called after him, regretting the loss of a sale from a wealthy customer. Sam longed to remain and give him an earful. He continued his search, stopping only for a cup of cider at a nearby tavern to warm himself up. 

He went to Bucky’s house and rapped on the door. It took some time for Roberta to appear at the door, and she looked contrite. “Mr. Barnes is indisposed, right now.”

“It’s noon,” Sam argued.

“He had a late night,” she said, giving him a small, knowing smile.

“May I come in? I’m familiar with James when he is ‘indisposed.’ I don’t think he will mind. And it’s important.”

She sighed. “Only you, he will forgive. Come inside, sir.” She showed him in, and Sam refused her offer to take his coat. Roberta went upstairs and Sam heard her words, muffled, as she told Bucky that he had company. Minutes later, after his muttered, grouchy complaints preceded him downstairs, Sam saw Bucky yawning and tying the sash of his robe. He was thoroughly tousled, and when they were still involved, Sam would have considered him kissable and tempting. 

“Steve is missing,” he said without preamble.

That drew Bucky up short, stopping him mid-yawn. “What did you just say?”

“He left my house.”

“Blast.” Bucky was fully awake now and fuming, tugging his hand through his hair in frustration. “Have you searched for him?”

“Yes. I still am. I came here to see if he came to see you.”

“No. Not yet. Shit!” Roberta looked chastened by her employer’s questionable language but held her tongue. “Let me just take care of something. I will come with you, Sam.”

“Do you need to bathe?”

“I should. It can wait. But there is something else I need to attend to.” WIth that, Bucky called upstairs, “Natasha! Sam is here!”

“I guessed as much, James. No need to bellow,” she shouted back. Sam’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“That was quick.”

“You told us to do inappropriate things. I was merely taking the suggestion of a friend.”

Natasha came downstairs clad in one of Bucky’s shirts and her bloomers, and even Bucky looked scandalized. Her hair was pulled down from its careful upsweep, hanging messily down to her shoulders. She looked surprised to see Sam, however. “Why aren’t you at the shop?” Bucky leaned down and kissed her temple, and she shot him a brief, fond look before giving Sam her full attention.

“I’ve closed it so I can look for Steve.”

Her eyes widened. “He left the house?”

“There was a misunderstanding.”

“Then, we need to remedy it. I need to go home to change.”

“My coachman will take you,” Bucky told her. “Once I’m in a decent pair of trousers.”

“Bundle up. It’s freezing out,” Sam told him. He could focus on nothing else, Steve braving the elements. Bucky’s windowpanes were dressed in layers of icy crystals. Bucky was muttering under his breath about Steve’s stubbornness as he and Natasha both hurried back upstairs. “I’m off. I’m going to go back downtown,” he told Bobbi. She nodded and curtsied as he left.

*

The hours bled by, and the gray sky grew dark as the snowfall slowed. They searched alleyways, with help from their friend, Sharon, the bakery girl. She went home briefly and informed her brothers, and they, too, aided in Sam’s search. He told the constable again about Steve, and they stayed out past when the streetlamps were lit. Sam was hungry and tired, hope flagging, but he had to find him. Steve wouldn’t survive out in this with a bad leg.

“Where else do you think he could have gone?” Nat asked Sam. Her nose was red and running a little, and she swiped at it with her mitten.

“Were there any places that he frequented?”

“I don’t know.” They stopped at the church to see if he found shelter there, but the vicar hadn’t seen him. Sam saw other unfortunate folk out on the cobbles and buskers performing for coin, but no Steve. 

But then he bent to give a young child a couple of pence, his heart going out to him when he saw the child’s grubby cheeks, he told Sam, “There was a man who came by last night. He had on a red scarf. He walked like this, with a big stick.” And he impersonated Steve’s hobble, hopping on one foot with his arm stretched out by his side. “He looked odd, sir.”

“He hurt his leg,” Sam explained as waves of relief washed over him. “He came by here?”

“He gave me some sweets,” the boy told Sam. “Butter biscuits. They were so good! The fancy kind.”

Because of course Steve, who had nothing himself, would be generous to a child. 

“He said something about visiting someone. He headed out that way.” He pointed out toward South Street. “He walked pretty far. Said something about visiting his friend’s parents.”

Sam paled.

*

Sam, Bucky, Nat and Sharon climbed out of the carriage, and Nat hugged herself at the sight of the iron gates. She, too, spent a lot of time here, visiting Alexei. Bucky held her hand as they entered, and Sam began calling Steve’s name, even though his voice was hoarse, throat sore from it. 

“Steven! Steve Rogers! STEVE!” He was desperate for the sight of him. 

“What was his mother’s name?” Nat asked.

“Sarah. Sarah Rogers. But he came to see _my_ parents. He had to, he-”

They headed toward Sam’s parents’ graves, and Sam saw a familiar figure slumped nearby, against a tall oak tree. He broke into a run when he saw the familiar cap. A few feet away Sam saw the crutch lying in the snow. Steve was huddled in a threadbare blanket, face pale, lips blue, and Sam cried out, “STEVE!” All the blood rushed from Sam’s head. He was witnessing the unthinkable, and he felt raw, his efforts suddenly, painfully futile. 

He was by his side in an instant, shaking him by the shoulders. “Steve, talk to me! Please, wake up!” Behind him, his friends loomed close. Sharon’s hand were pressed to her mouth, and Bucky stepped forward to assess Steve. Sam lightly slapped Steve’s cheeks, fear paralyzing him. “STEVE! Open your eyes, damn you!” He continued to shake him, and he was rewarded by Steve’s choked, shaky breath. Steve opened bleary, glassy eyes. “S-Sam?” His voice was brittle and weak. “What are y-you…”

“You gave me a horrible fright. Why did you leave me?”

“Couldn’t. Burden you.”

“You’re no burden.” Sam shook his head, and he was dizzy from the relief of finding him, but Steve was in a bad way. “You could never be a burden. You’re coming with me, Simon’s here to take us home, Steve. Do you hear me?”

“Tired, Sam.” He closed his eyes, and Sam shook him again. 

“Bucky, get his crutch.” And with that, Sam leaned down and scooped Steve into his arms, blanket and all. Nat gathered up his other belongings, carefully putting the locket wrapped in its handkerchief into her coat pocket for safekeeping. Sam rushed to the coach.

“I can make my own way home,” Sharon offered. Sam looked apologetic, but there wasn’t enough room in his carriage for a fifth.

“We’ll go, too,” Nat told Sam. “We’re not far from Erskine’s place. We will send him to you.” Sam was bundling Steve into the carriage, where he was staring around him in confusion. He appeared to be in shock. Once they were inside the carriage, Sam had a better opportunity to listen to Steve’s breathing. His lungs sounded coarse, and he had a distinctive wheeze. Pneumonia, he realized. 

“Home, Simon!”

*

“Blankets. More blankets. Boil some water. Lots of it,” Sam ordered his maids. Cook already had a kettle set for tea, and a pot filled with a chicken that she was boiling for stock. 

“You found him at the cemetery?” Rahne was hurrying to do as Sam asked, retrieving blankets from the linen closet. 

“Yes. I found him down, in the snow.”

“Heavenly Father,” Rahne breathed. “Poor, sweet soul.”

Steve’s coat, cap, muffler and shoes lay on a chair in the guest suite. Steve lay in bed, propped up on several pillows to keep his airway open. Dr. Erskine arrived and looked pessimistic and grim when he listened to Steve’s chest.

“How long has be been out?”

“A day. Around the clock.”

“What possessed him to leave?”

“A misunderstanding.” Sam’s voice was broken. “I want to make it up to him, Doctor.”

“I will do my best to make sure you have that opportunity.”

The first order of business was to deal with Steve’s hypothermia. Steve shivered beneath the blankets; they’d stripped him down to his breeches, and Sam dressed him in one of his large sleeping gowns. Steve huddled there while Sam rubbed his back through the comforter.

“Why did you have to be so stubborn? Why didn’t you tell me how you felt? You scared me out of years of my life, Steve.”

“C-couldn’t stay wi-wi-with-without paying y-you b-back…” His eyes were still dazed but swimming with tears. Sam’s hand trembled as he stroked his hair.

“That doesn’t matter. Steve, that doesn’t matter at all. You don’t have to pay me a cent. I came home last night, and you were gone. I wondered if I had hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I had.”

“N-no. Not you, S-Sam.” His teeth were chattering as Abraham prepared balms for his chest and other medications.

“This will make your cough more productive, young man. You’re going to stay put.” Sam moved aside to let the doctor to his work. Then next two hours were spent warming Steve up. That frightening pallor in Steve’s cheeks gradually eased, and his lips no longer looked blue, but they were chapped and cracked. Sam continued to stroke his hair. After a while, he gently rubbed Steve’s hands, which still felt like ice. Rahne brought up Steve’s tea and broth, but Steve struggled to manage either one, constantly coughing. It was a wet, ragged sound, thick with phlegm, and Sam’s fear rematerialized.

Somewhere through his fog, Steve saw Sam, staring down at him with so much concern and anguish, but there was also so much regard for him, so evident in his gentle touch. “Don’t leave me again,” Sam pleaded with him. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“You look,” Steve told him haltingly, “like an angel.”

Tears rolled down Sam’s cheeks like quicksilver. He kissed Steve’s knuckles, then continued to rub warmth into his hand.

Sam stayed up with Steve. He was finally coming around, warmer, but still horribly congested. Sam reheated his tea for him and urged him to take some more. Erskine gave him some packets of eucalyptus leaves, and Sam boiled them on the stove. He carried Steve downstairs, still wrapped in blankets. He took him into the kitchen and sat Steve on his lap and made him breath in the steam. Steve continued to cough up sputum; Sam wiped it away with Cook’s towels as it appeared. He rubbed and thumped Steve’s back, and Steve was beginning to relax against him. His eyes were still glassy and watery, and Sam was wracked with so much guilt.

“You should have told me what Brock said, Steve. I would have given him a thrashing and thrown him out into the street.”

“He wasn’t wrong.”

“Yes, he damn well was, Steve!” Sam sighed in exasperation. “You don’t know how my life changed once you came into it, do you? Steven Rogers, you’re truly infuriating, do you know that?”

“I’ve been told that, occasionally. Bucky thinks so, too.”

“You scared him, too. And Natasha. And Simon.” He could have listed several more people who he had frightened with his absence, but it wasn’t what he needed. “They have come to care about you, too.”

_They have come to care about you, too._ “You care about me?”

Sam was rubbing Steve’s back through the blankets again, and he kissed his temple. “I thought I had made that clear under the mistletoe. We need to speak frankly about this. My house feels empty without you. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night after you left. My heart nearly stopped when you didn’t answer me after I called for you. It stopped again when I found you in the snow. Steve.” Sam’s voice shook. “I love you. So help me, I love you. Everything about you, but I will be lost if you leave me again.”

“You’re young. Eligible. You need to make a strong match and take a wife.”

“No. I don’t. I don’t plan to do any such thing.”

“Natasha-”

“Has grown newly fond of Bucky. They will be getting into mischief together, despite the lack of a proper courting.”

“You were fond of her, too.”

“We wanted different things. So did Bucky and I. If you truly don’t want to stay with me, Steve… if you find it that objectionable, then at least promise me you will wait until the weather warms. I know you might not return my-”

“Don’t. Don’t, Sam.” Steve looked stricken. “Oh, Sam. You said we would speak frankly. Objectionable. Only that I lack anything to give you if I stay.”

“Give me yourself.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I don’t deserve _you_. DId you hear me? I love you. I love you, Steven Rogers.”

Steve untangled his hand from the blankets and reached up to lay his palm against Sam’s cheek. “Sam, I love you, too. From the moment we met.”

“Will you have me? Will you stay with me?”

“Only if I can contribute, once I’m out of this splint.” Steve coughed again, and it was still a thick, troubling sound, and Sam helped him wipe his mouth again. “And perhaps a bit more hale.”

Sam returned him to his bed, and he continued to nurse him, putting a fresh application of balm on his chest, giving him sips of tea. Sam gently hummed to him, the melodies of the symphonies they both loved, but then he switched to carols, and he smoothed Steve’s hair and cheek.

Steve felt Sam’s soft kisses along his hairline as he drifted off, and he felt so safe and cared for, soothed by the low rumble of Sam’s sweet voice.

*

Cook arrived the next day, bright and early. Simon let her inside, and they both had dark circles under their eyes. “Aren’t we a ragged pair,” Cook remarked. “Where is Mr. Wilson?”

“Upstairs. I haven’t checked in on them, yet.”

He followed Cook upstairs. Rahne and Kate had been given the day off to spend Christmas morning with Samuel and Clint, but both of them vowed to stop by. Cook gently rapped at the bedroom door before cracking it open.

Sam was slumped over the bed from his chair, his head laid over Steve’s chest atop the covers. His arm was looped around him, and his face looked serene in sleep. Steve’s breathing was still harsh enough to make Cook fret, but he looked so much better that she almost let out a cry of relief. “All right, then,” she whispered as she backed out of the suite. “I’ll let them rest.”

“I’m going to muck the stalls,” Simon decided.

Cook began to make breakfast and started boiling oranges for marmalade. She worked quietly, gradually filling the kitchen with tempting aromas. Sam heard the light clanks of pot lids and spoons stirring pans. He stirred awake, something solid beneath his cheek. He leaned up and rubbed his eyes and gradually remembered his night. 

Steve lay there, bedclothes rumpled, hair a tousled wreck, but his color was good, and his breathing sounded looser than before. “Steve. Sweetheart?” 

Steve woke to gentle kisses, just small presses of Sam’s lips over his brow, and down the crest of his cheek. Steve leaned up into it, turning his face into the contact. “Mmmmmm…”

“Happy Christmas.”

Steve’s eyes cracked open, and he smiled up at Sam. “It is, isn’t it?”

Sam kissed his cheek again.

“Don’t stop. That feels nice.”

“All right.” More kisses, feather-light, accompanied by the caress of his fingers. 

“How was the ball?”

“Dreadful without you.”

“You didn’t sign any dance cards?”

“Bucky’s my best partner, and Natasha stole him away from me. All I wanted to do was come home and take you back under the mistletoe. And watch you draw. And hear your voice. And stare into your beautiful eyes.”

“You have a silver tongue, Sam Wilson.” But Steve’s smile was smug.

“No. I’m just a man in love.”


	6. Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve recovers. Sam makes him an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Thank you for joining me on this journey with these two.

“Mr. Wilson? I brought in the post, sir.” Kate’s voice was bright as she entered the house and untied her muffler. Sam looked up from his ledger at the kitchen table, smiling and waving her inside.

“You must have read my mind. I was just about to go out and pick it up.”

“No need to trouble yourself now, sir. Ooh, this one looks interesting,” she said, separating one smaller envelope in heavy, cream-colored stationery. Sam huffed, raising his brows as he took it from her. Kate riffled slowly through the rest as he broke the wax seal and opened it.

“Ah,” he mused. “I think I was expecting this.” But perhaps not quite so soon.

_Natasha Alianovna Romanova and James Buchanan Barnes request the pleasure of your attendance at their ceremony of holy matrimony…_

It was inevitable.

Natasha and Bucky chose to break their usual habit of “doing inappropriate things” and marry each other, and very little could make Sam happier. They were cut from the same cloth, and Natasha glowed with happiness every time James walked into the room. James was just as besotted, and, in Sam’s opinion, more smug than ever.

Impending fatherhood did that to a man, Sam decided. Natasha chose to hold their wedding in early March, not the most fashionable time of the year, but soon enough that she wouldn’t be showing quite yet. In deference to her status as a widow, Natasha would eschew a white gown and instead walk down the aisle in a dress of soft, blush pink. Sam would stand beside Bucky as his best man. And since Natasha had never been one to do things conventionally, Steve would stand up with Natasha, for lack of a maid of honor or a father to give her away.

“I’ve been craving a wedding,” Kate told him. “Rahne’s is too far off.” Rahne and Samuel were getting married in late summer, as they had saved enough money to purchase a small house in town. Rahne was bright and giddy with joy, all blushes when she showed them the modest emerald ring that Sam gave her when he formally proposed. Natasha had embraced her, whispering in her ear “At least _one_ of us can wear that white gown, dear.” That prompted shocked, hushed giggles from Rahne and Bucky’s brief, knowing smile off to the side.

The weather was slowly turning; snowfall was less frequent, and tiny green buds were appearing on the branches. Business at Sam’s store was thriving and generous as people came into town more often to order supplies. Sam’s earlier fears that he would lack for help in his shop were unfounded, however. Even though Rhodes moved out of the district upon his marriage, Sam didn’t lack for help. 

Steve accompanied him bright and early every morning, bundled beside Sam in the carriage, smartly dressed and well fed, eyes bright. They sat huddled close, holding hands companionably as Simon drove them down the cobbles and melting slush. Sam enjoyed his presence, tucked up against him and sharing his warmth. Sam and Steve opened the shop together and counted the till, dusted the shelves and took inventory before the earliest customers wandered inside. Steve was an excellent assistant, handy at completing transactions and greeting the public. Everyone who came into Sam’s shop loved Steve’s bright smile and pleasant demeanor, and the energy he brought with him, his contagious humor.

His leg healed well, and he kept up with Sam and Bucky easily now when they went on their walks. Steve was still thin as a reed, but he was healthy, no longer a bag of bones. Mind you, he _still_ wasn’t particularly graceful, something Bucky loved to point out whenever Sam took him for a turn around his study. Sam and Bucky were determined to teach Steve to dance, but Steve was an _absolute disaster_ at every step. But on any given afternoon, when Sam dragged him from his chair, tugging his sketch journal from his hands, Steve would protest loudly, but his smile was indulgent. Steve could never tell Sam no.

Sam set aside the invitation and went back to his ledger.

“Want me to put it on your desk, sir? So nothing ruins it?”

“That will be fine, Kate.”

“More tea, sir?” Cook offered as she stirred the large bowl of gingerbread dough.

“I’ll wait until Steve comes down,” he told her. And he wasn’t disappointed when, moments later, he heard his light footsteps from down the hall. Cook was already retrieving another cup from the cabinet, and she let out a whoop when she saw Steve in the doorway.

“Aren’t you looking every bit the dandy!” she cried. “Oh, come right in here and show us how you’ve turned out, Mr. Rogers!”

Steve was blushing beet red but grinning, ducking his head as he entered the kitchen.

Sam’s smile spread slowly across his face as he drank him in.

Steve wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pale gray vest, paired with a darker gray pair of trousers and new, hard leather shoes. His hair was newly trimmed and combed neatly with a hint of pomade. The clothing made him look dapper and every bit the gentleman, flattering his lean build and fair coloring. Steve’s eyes never looked so blue.

“Pretty as a picture,” Cook boasted.

“Natasha has an impeccable hand,” Sam told her. He made a gesture for Steve to turn around, and Steve made a slow circle, his sigh long-suffering. “You’ll do.”

Steve chuckled. “You’re so generous with your praise, Mr. Wilson. Truly. You’ll swell my head.”

Sam wouldn’t admit in front of his staff that he longed to take Steve right back upstairs and strip him out of his carefully pressed clothes. It was the middle of the afternoon, after all, and they were due at Bucky’s for chess.

Oh, but the _mornings_.

They were his favorite indulgence. Waking up to Steve shortly after dawn, watching the sunlight catch in his soft blond hair and glide over his peaches-and-cream skin. They shared Sam’s enormous, canopied four-poster bed that enjoyed a lovely view of Sam’s back yard and the stables. Sam was an ongoing guest in Steve’s guest room during those first tense, difficult nights while he was ill, and he acted as his nurse, minding Steve’s comfort, keeping him warm and amply propped with pillows to aid his breathing as he recovered from pneumonia. Steve often woke to Sam half-sprawled across his bed, bent over in his chair, and his heart went out to Sam as he watched him sleep, still protective of him, and so caring. 

Steve stopped being bashful in front of Sam in regard to his nudity, and it grew more… frequent. Once Dr. Erskine cleared Steve for fully immersed baths, and to remove the splint from his leg, there was no keeping Steve out of Sam’s claw-footed bathtub. They saved baths for nighttime, and Steve would indulge in a long, hot soak, a luxury he’d been denied for so long. 

The first time Steve used the tub, lingering in the lavender-scented water, Sam had rapped gently on the door, calling in to him, “Is it hot enough?”

“It’s perfect.” And Sam felt a low kick of want in his gut at the sound of his voice, deep and filled with satisfaction.

“Is… is there anything else you need, Steve?”

“I wouldn’t mind someone scrubbing by back. I seem to remember a truly kind man doing that for me, once. Or twice.”

Sam’s lips curled. The door hinge whined as Sam slowly opened it and lingered in the doorway, gazing upon his love. Steve’s skin was slightly rosy from the heat of the bath. His nipples were pebbled and ruched, and his skin glistened from the steam. “A fellow has to get clean _somehow_ , Sam.”

“Cleanliness is important,” Sam agreed. And desire flared bright and hot inside him at the sight of Steve, at the flirtation in his smile, the relaxed set of his body. The crests of his kneecaps were visible above the surface of the water, so his sex was obscured by his bent legs, but what Sam _could_ see tempted him.

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I? Is it too much trouble?”

Sam shook his head, mouth dry. Steve was perfect, and he longed to touch him. Steve’s expression was an open invitation. “You’re never too much trouble. Your needs are my pleasure.”

“Then I’m about to please you very much.” 

Steve continued to smile as Sam gently closed the door behind him. He bent down and removed his shoes, then unbuttoned his vest. He laid that on the table, beside the empty basin, and he rolled up his sleeves, exposing his muscular forearms and smooth, dark skin. And Steve felt just as much desire for him, because Sam Wilson was a handsome man, even more so now, with those dark eyes devouring Steve in his current, unclothed state. His smiled flashed that adorable dimple, and Steve reached for the damp washrag folded on the edge of the tub and handed it to Sam, along with the lump of soap.

“I can’t reach.”

“Then, allow me.” Sam took the rag from him, letting their fingers graze, and he felt his face heat up with anticipation. Steve was truly breathtaking, limbs lean and graceful, the long line of his neck taut and tempting. His skin was so fair that Sam could see the network of veins underneath; he longed to trace them with his fingertips. Sam wanted to touch Steven Rogers _everywhere_ that he would allow him.

But Steve leaned forward, scooching up in the tub to expose his back, and Sam felt an even stronger rush of want, seeing the smooth plane of his back, faintly freckled and rosy from the warmth of the tub. Beneath the water, he saw the partly obscured curves of his buttocks, the crease blurred by the water’s rippling surface. Sam dipped the rag into the water and knelt down beside the tub, ignoring the dampness that had already splashed onto the floor, dampening his trousers. He ran the rag over Steve’s upper back, aroused by the contact and how he felt beneath his hands. Steve’s eyes shuttered, and he exhaled a low groan of pleasure.

“Make sure you don’t miss a spot.”

“Are you doubting my bathing skills, sir?”

“Not in the least. I’m confident that you’ll be thorough, kind man that you are.” And the rag licked over his skin, trailing the luscious warmth, trickling down his smoothness and exquisite angles. Sam’s palm had the rag wrapped around it, skimming over him, re-learning the feel of that firm body, how it relaxed and leaned into his touch. 

“Now you’re using flattery, again,” Sam accused, but his smile was knowing, and now familiar. Steve recognized the glint in his eye, that usually meant he was about to-

The rag made a low _splish_ as Sam’s fingers dropped it, and they rose to trace the side of Steve’s face, gently tipping his chin up into his kiss. Sam’s lips brushed over Steve’s, asking permission to linger there. Steve’s warmth breath misted out, mingling with Sam’s, and Sam felt the hair rise on his arms, affected so strongly by the feel of his soft, inviting lips yielding to him. And Sam’s touch was reverent, making Steve’s heart pound in his chest as he took his time, learning the feel of him, how he tasted. Steve’s jaw was cleanly shaven, which was his preference, even though Sam liked the sandy stubble that occasionally graced the line of his jaw. Sam’s face tilted, and he slotted their lips together again, drawing more low sounds of contentment from Steve. Steve’s lips parted further, and Sam hummed in surprise as he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, barely nipping it with the edge of his teeth. Then the kisses grew hungry, and Sam ignored the ache in his knees from kneeling forward, almost _in_ the tub himself. His palms cradled Steve’s face, tilting it further back so he could take what he needed from him, kisses that were long and hot, drugging them both and overcoming self-restraint. Sam felt Steve’s warm, damp grip around his wrists, felt those artist’s fingers tracing his knuckles, and he knew he wasn’t alone in his ardor.

They withdrew, both breathing hard, staring at each other in a daze of need. “I’ll never get enough of touching you. I know I’m taking liberties-”

“None that I haven’t given you,” Steve reminded him, voice husky and eyes glazed with lust. “Your touch does so many things to me, Sam Wilson. Just watching you look at me with those lovely eyes…” Steve leaned up and kissed him again, small, sweet caresses, wordless promises for more. And he was touching Sam, too, hands trailing over his forearms, mapping out the generous, sculpted muscles.

Yearning was sweetest when it was shared. “Sam,” Steve murmured, breath still shaky, “may I take a liberty of my own?”

“Name it.”

And Steve’s fingers drifted to Sam’s shirt, and he undid the buttons, one by one, parting the folds of his fine shirt. Baring Sam’s chest to his hungry gaze. And Sam’s heart was beating so fast, pulse racing from the look in Steve’s eyes, the way he was staring at Sam’s lips, breath catching at the sight of Sam’s skin. “Let me see you, Sam. Please.”

Rapt, Sam leaned back from the edge of the tub, to give Steve better access. He came up fully on his knees, allowing him to reach the last button, and to untuck the tails of his shirt from his trousers. Steve almost regretted the droplets of water now darkening the expensive cloth, but the sight of Sam’s beautiful chest and flat belly, rippling with muscle, made him decide that it was a worthwhile sacrifice. Sam Wilson was _stunning_. The cloth yielded to his tugging, exposing Sam’s narrow waist, the sweet, tempting indent of his navel. The dark sprinkle of hair trailing below his waistband from it.  Dark, peaked nipples. And during Steve’s labors, he shifted in the tub, knees descending below the water again, giving Sam a less obstructed view of his lap. The lapping water still blurred his manhood, but it was pink, partly erect, nestled in sandy hair between Steve’s tapered thighs. Steve drew the shirt down Sam’s shoulders, the rounded crests, letting it drape down off of his upper arms, until Sam shrugged completely out of it to oblige him.

The water tinkled back into the tub, sluicing off of Steve’s body as he shifted again, rising onto his knees in the tub to meet Sam on more even ground, and his skin glistened with droplets, so rosy and beckoning to Sam to touch it, and he shivered at the feel of Steve’s fingertips, taking the liberties that Sam had allowed, exploring the smooth mound of his pectoral, his shoulder. The dip of his collarbone. All while those blue eyes burned into Sam’s.

“Beautiful,” he husked. “You’re so beautiful, Sam.” And Steve reached for him, hand slipping behind Sam’s nape and pulling him down to kiss him, steaming his lips with his breath, and Sam nearly came undone. It had been so long… too long since someone had looked at him like that, touched him with so much need and naked admiration. So much want. Bucky had cared for him. At one point, perhaps he had cherished Sam. They found a mutual need in each other and for a time, fulfilled it.

But, Steve.

Steven Rogers telegraphed yearning in the way he touched Sam, in the way Sam’s name lived in his mouth.

And Sam had cared for Steve, had provided him with shelter. He felt protective of him, but there was so much fond regard of him, such a natural instinct that rose up within Sam to offer him his affections. To love him with his whole self. He was drawn to Steve’s goodness, his openness. His talent and his way of seeing the world. His laughter. Sam was just so _smitten_.

Sam’s skin was hot, and so soft, and his hair’s tight curls were springy to the touch, delightful for Steve to curl his fingers into. Sam moaned at the slight scratch of his fingernails against his scalp, and his hands reached for him, drifting down to Steve’s waist, molding to its shape. Steve’s skin was slick and cooling from time out of the water, which Sam wanted to remedy, _quickly_.

“Mustn’t let you catch a chill,” Sam growled against Steve’s lips. “Get back in.”

“You’re not finished with me, are you?” There was a note of disappointment in Steve’s voice, but Sam shook his head, and his smile was wicked.

“Perish the thought.” And Sam stood, looming over him, and his fingers swiftly undid the button of his trousers. Steve was speechless as they dropped, revealing his legs, two tapering, muscular pillars, and he saw the bulge of Sam’s manhood, straining and twitching beneath his drawers. Steve eased back into the tub, but his arms were sprawled wide, hands dangling off the edges of the tub as he stared up at Sam.

The drawers dropped onto the floor. The breath whooshed out of Steve’s chest.

“Make room for me?”

“Which end do you want?”

“I want to keep the draft off your back.”

Steve smirked, then eased himself forward, as was his habit, to let Sam join him, sliding up against his back, hemming him in with his long legs. And Sam’s hold on him was insistent, tugging Steve back into the nook of his body, fitting him against his warm contours. Steve made a contented sound at the sensation of his skin, bare against his, feeling so comfortable in his embrace with the water lapping at them. The water was almost too deep with both of them occupying it, rising perilously close to the sides of the tub, but it was still deliciously warm.

Sam kissed him, just little, contemplative caresses because he had Steve’s full permission, and Steve sighed dreamily. “I can’t think straight when you do that. It feels so good.”

“Then why think?” Sam’s fingertips drew little patterns over Steve’s chest as he kissed the crest of his cheek. “Unless something’s on your mind?”

“You saved me. My life is so rich now, Sam. There are so many good things in it, because you…” Steve’s voice faltered. Sam’s embrace tightened around him, and he kissed Steve’s temple, just breathing him in.

“You saved _me_. I didn’t know how… how much I was missing until you showed me.” Steve leaned up into the soft press of his lips, feeling his breath stir the hairs at his temple. “You’re such a bright light in my life, Steve. I can’t imagine it without you in it.”

Steve swallowed, eyes pricking. “Then, please don’t. Please, Sam.”

“Promise me you won’t leave me again.” And Sam’s voice was vulnerable, nursing an old wound. “That was the worst night of my life.”

“I’m going to spend a long time making it up to you, Sam Wilson. I love you.”

And rather than simply tell him, Sam showed him. His fingers slid beneath Steve’s chin, tilting it up into his kiss, and this one was deep and langorous, full of ownership and heat. Steve’s hands were resting cupped around Sam’s knees, and their grip tightened as Sam’s palm drifted over his chest. He shuddered at the way he found and toyed with his nipple, sensitive from the dampness and subsequent cooling where the water bared it. Steve moaned, sighing at the sensations of Sam’s talented fingers moving over his flesh. They silently traced the delicate cage of his ribs, the line of his sternum, and Sam’s palm slid down Steve’s flat belly, combing through the coarse mat of curls between his legs. Steve arched against him as Sam’s kisses continued to wreak havoc with his senses, their tongues tangling together, and when Sam found the column of his sex, ringing it in his loose fist, all reason fled Steve’s head. All he could do was _feel_. Sam’s heartbeat, throbbing against his back, Sam’s warm breath that he was sharing with him, the mellow flavors of _his mouth_ , the satiny lap of his tongue, and the hand kneading and pulling on him, no longer afraid to take liberties, now only determined to share pleasure with Steve, to make him release all of those wonderful sounds from his chest.

Steve strained back against him and released his seed, his climax made him see colors behind his closed lids as he spilled over Sam’s fist. His body went limp against Sam, and his breathing slowed, still uneven, but his pants escaped from smiling lips. 

“I can’t take my eyes off of you when you find your pleasure,” Sam admitted. Steve found the forgotten wash rag and calmly wiped of Sam’s sticky fingers. He sighed as he settled back against Sam, replete. Yet he felt Sam, twitching and throbbing behind him, his arousal a hard knob against Steve’s tailbone. “I’d like to help you find it again.”

“The water’s getting chilly.”

“My bed is warm.”

And Sam urged Steve forward, stepping out of the tub first. Steve looked absolutely bereft at the loss of the warmth against his back, but Sam found a folded towel and opened it, holding it for Steve to step into. “I’m going to dry you off,” Sam promised. “Then I’m going to ravish you. And I will keep you warm.” And he engulfed Steve in the towel’s soft knit, holding him close, and Steve accepted his kiss, arms slipping around Sam’s waist. “And I will make you glad that the girls have left for the night.”

The last statement sent frissons of excitement through Steve’s gut. He was trapped in Sam’s arms, low huffs of laughter escaping him through his kisses. “I already am.” He glanced apologetically back at the floor surrounding the tub. “We’ve made a mess, though.”

“Don’t fret. Come with me.” And with that, Sam carried Steve, both of them still dripping, to his bedroom, where he deposited Steve on the bed. “You look adorable like that,” Sam told him before he darted off. Steve chuckled at the sight of Sam, naked and glistening and moving that quickly. He heard the shuffling of cloth in the corridor, then the sounds of something hitting the bathroom floor. Sam came back at a slightly more sedate pace, looking smug. Behind him, Steve heard the sounds of the water draining from the tub. 

“Not quite as bad. We don’t leave too much for Rahne to mop,” Sam promised. Steve’s eyes were bright above his smile.

“You’re making me chilled just looking at you.”

“Then, move over!”

Sam pounced onto the bed, bowling Steve over onto his back, and the two of them cackled like loons. Sam unwrapped Steve from the towel, covering him with his body instead, and Steve gathered him close, humming in approval when Sam’s mouth found his again and drank deep from it. Steve reached for the edge of the topmost blanket and flipped it over them both, shielding them both from the chill in the room, and Sam sighed as he relaxed against Steve’s warmth. It was so much different, Steve found, to his delight, being pressed against Sam fully, with no barriers between them. It was heady and euphoric, being able to touch him however he wanted, feeling him begin to slowly rut and slide against him. Steve’s palms molded Sam’s smooth, broad back, making him shudder and making his breathing uneven when he gripped Sam’s hips. He ground up against Sam, letting their members buffet and surge together, swollen and hard. Sam moved slowly at first, letting Steve grow accustomed to the contact and his careful rhythm. Their legs tangled together, and Steve’s eyes were hazy with lust. Their skin warmed beneath the covers and they began to sweat.

“Don’t be quiet,” Sam urged. “Let me hear you.” He painted kisses down the side of Steve’s throat, and Steve’s grip on Sam’s nape tightened, not wanting to let him up. He was greedy for Sam’s attention, and he felt another climax looming inside him, waiting for Sam to set it loose. 

“Sam,” Steve panted. “S’good. You feel so good…” Sam was leaking, and Steve felt the dampness of the hot droplets painting his belly, creating slickness between them. Sam thrust against him, gliding through the wetness, making Steve’s cock slowly weep at contact and friction. And there was Sam, looming above him, staring into Steve’s face in awe, with so much love. Sam arched his body and thrust down harder, picking up the pace, arm muscles straining, and Steve’s thighs burned from splaying them open to receive him, but the pleasure was worth the pain. And Steve, following Sam’s command, found himself moaning and crying out, panting out Sam’s name, barely intelligible. His grip on Sam would leave marks if he wasn’t careful, but he never wished to let him go. Sam’s manhood was engorged and pulsing hot, urging Steve toward bliss all over again.

“Look at you,” Sam grated out. “Look at you.” Because he was just so beautiful, head pushed back into the pillows, sandy gold hair in disarray around his face. His robin’s egg blue eyes were glazed with want, all for Sam, and Sam leaned down and kissed his now-chapped lips, licking into the hot, satiny interior of his mouth. Steve’s voice was a loud, desperate, keening hum, interspersed with ragged breaths. He continued to meet Sam’s thrusts, and he reached between them, ringing them both in his snug grip. It overwhelmed Sam, feeling that pressure suddenly constrained to that space between them, every rational thought in his mind flown out of the room at the touch of Steve’s hand.

“Show me,” Steve rasped. “Please, Sam, show me... “

Sam’s expression was _desperate_ , and his body was shuddering with need, he craved completion so much. Steve tightened his grip a bit more, stroking them and giving him more friction, and he wrung loud cries from Sam. He continued to thrust, needing to give Steve what they both wanted again…

They nearly shouted the house down around their ears. When the climax hit Sam, barreling down his lower spine, coursing through his body in a burst of unbridled heat, he arched, eyes rolling shut, arms straining to support his weight while his hips bore down against Steve, urging him to follow him. Steve’s hand sped up its twisting jerks, enveloping them both until he erupted in his palm, painting them both in sticky heat. Steve wrung them out, catching Sam’s last, spasming, hard thrusts. His body kept twitching, voice caught in short, broken little cries. They were panting, gasping, completely spent. Sam collapsed against Steve, limp and boneless. Steve’s arms enveloped him, drawing the blanket around them more tightly to shut out the draft that began to cool the sweat on their skin. Sam’s breath misted over Steve’s collarbones while Steve’s fanned out across Sam’s brow. Sam felt the uneven rise and fall of Steve’s chest and let himself ride it, listening to his pounding heartbeat.

“I can’t… I can’t move,” Steve pronounced. Sam huffed a little laugh, not calling him out on the lie as Steve’s arms tightened around him, stroking his hair. 

“That’s a pity. I had planned to take you downstairs and make you dance with me, again.”

Steve snickered and gave him a pinch in umbrage. Sam smiled against his chest. His thick, solid thigh pinned Steve’s, and he was tracing Steve’s collarbone with his fingertips. “You’re cruel, Sam.”

“You need to use that leg. Dr. Erskine said so.”

“To build it up, yes. I do recall.”

“It’s a very _nice_ leg,” Sam mentioned casually as he stroked Steve’s supple thigh. Steve shivered.

“Too much. Not yet. I… it feels nice, but it’s just too soon.”

“Fair enough,” Sam told him, and he switched to sweeping his hair back from his brow, instead. “I want you hale and hearty again.”

“So you can put me back to work?” Steve joked.

Sam sighed. “You’re such a brat, Steve. Honestly. I might put you out in the stables to muck them out with Simon.”

“The horses like me,” Steve teased.

“They don’t know you that well, yet.”

Sam rose from the bed a few minutes later, reluctant to leave Steve’s side. But he brought up a hot brick to warm the bed, rearranged the covers to let them bundle up under all of them, and he found each of them a pair of drawers and a sleeping shirt to wear to bed. 

Bathing often resulted in lovemaking. Hence, they bathed after Sam’s cook and housekeepers left the house for the night. 

*

Brock wore out his welcome at Sam’s house. He still occasionally showed up at the store for supplies, but Sam ignored his attempts to draw them into his vicious gossip. Interestingly, however, Brock’s lack of social graces brought a new friend into Sam and Steve’s circle. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” a soft baritone voice said by Steve’s elbow, and he looked up to find a swarthy, curly-haired man about his height but stocky, wearing a well-cut brown suit and reading spectacles that made his brown eyes look owlish. “Is your shop the one that sells the fine teas?”

Steve smiled warmly. “We sell any tea you’d like.”

The stranger’s eyes crinkled. “That’s what I was hoping to hear. I was directed here by the gentleman who owns that gaming den down the road. Er, a Mr. Rumlow? Very complex fellow… he mentioned your shop, and he once brought me some of your tea, a lovely jasmine blend.”

“You prefer tea, sir?”

“Indeed, I do. I prefer it to spirits, and I prefer it while reading a good book.”

Steve looked delighted. “We have a nice white tea, too, sir. You should try this, with some of these fine biscuits.” He showed him a tin of shortbread biscuits, opening the lid. “Our baker, Sharon, makes these. They’re a house specialty. We stole her away from the bakery across town.”

“And rather shamelessly,” Sam chimed in. He grinned at Bruce, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re the one who likes the tea.”

“I’ve been meaning to bring myself here,” he replied, reaching out to shake Sam’s hand. “My name is Bruce. Bruce Banner. I live in the next district. That’s where I hang my shingle.”

“Dr. Banner?” Steve guessed as he shook his hand, too. “We’ve heard so many things. Good things, I assure you. From Dr. Erskine. He has so much respect for you. It’s an honor that you came into our shop.” Sam’s face lit up as he nodded.

“Abraham is an esteemed colleague. You both humble me, now, passing on such kind sentiment.”

“It’s well-earned,” Sam told him. “Here. The jasmine is nice, but try this oolong, too. And the white. It has a hint of pear in it.”

And that was how they gained another dinner guest. Bruce turned out to be kind, thoughtful and sensitive, a welcome change from Rumlow and his unannounced visits. Bruce appreciated fine music and was a more than adequate rival for Steve and Sam at the chessboard. Bucky and Natasha, once introduced, found him delightful. 

*

Springtime brought warmer weather, and Natasha’s wedding. They all attended Rahne and Samuel’s that following summer, and by then Natasha’s belly was round enough for the bride to feel the baby kick. 

Sam and Steve ignored rumors from the townsfolk and questions about when either of them - both considered eligible bachelors - would find brides. They enjoyed an enduring partnership in Sam’s business and a home filled with love, caring friends and a bond that banished the loneliness when fate robbed them both of their families. They rode horses on Sam’s property - now Steve’s property, as well - and went on picnics beneath the shade of the willow trees, fed the geese and found scenic places for Steve to sketch whenever it was warm. They perused the local outdoor market and would bring flowers to place over both of their mothers’ graves. They became Natasha and James’ daughter’s favorite uncles. Both of them gave generously to the community’s poor, and Sam never chided Sharon for sharing his shop’s day-old bread to the occasional stranger who had nothing else.

Their favorite story to relate to company over a bowl of Cook’s dumplings was the night Steve met Sam. Few couples truly in love could begin the tale of their love with the words “I was smitten the moment I carried him inside the house.” Simon blushed deep scarlet every time they told it, but he knew they were giving him credit, not blame, for the love they now enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to amend my notes on this fic to include FAN ART!
> 
> http://esaael.tumblr.com/post/157120168246/in-honor-of-fanfic-rec-days-i-want-to-rec-the
> 
> esaael on Tumblr drew the most beautiful watercolor sketch of a scene from this story, and it almost moved me to tears. I'm overwhelmed by how thoughtful this was, and thrilled that I have such talented online friends. Thank you from the bottom of my old lady, fannish heart.


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